


Moving Soft

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amsterdam, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Friends, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, HP: EWE, M/M, Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-09-30 18:24:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 50,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: For the first decade after the war, Harry Potter disappeared. At the same time, Jamie Evander appeared in Amsterdam, on a secret mission. It could be a coincidence. But coincidence and fate look an awful lot alike if you squint. Especially when Amsterdam suddenly becomes home to another Hogwarts alumni, who is also trying to hide. Post-Hogwarts, EWE, Eventual slash.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will contain some slash related stuff later. Also, there's some Dutch in it that I didn't translate directly because contextually it should be easy to understand, and it's not a lot. If you speak Dutch, and I really screwed it up, please please let me know!
> 
> THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES TO MY FIRST EVER BETA Jade Presley, who is patient, hilarious, and simply the sweetest, and who unstuck this fic that would have otherwise withered forever. Enjoy!

 

"Hide until everybody goes home. Hide until everybody forgets about you. Hide until everybody dies."

― Yoko Ono, _Grapefruit: A Book of Instructions and Drawings_

* * *

 

The first time Draco Malfoy had started over, there had been no one there to see it. His mother was in Amsterdam under psychiatric care, ordered by the ministry and paid for from his vaults by way of reparations, while his father was in Azkaban, awaiting a pardon that Draco would ensure never came. Even the house elves had all been dismissed with generous pay and gag orders centuries in the making. There was no one else, and for the first time, Draco felt safe.

And while he was not proud of it, almost the second he had been handed the keys after the trial, he had gone home and smashed every Malfoy family heirloom he could get his hands on. A thousand year old clock whose face made a satisfying crack when he aimed his wand at it. A porcelain casting of his great, great grandfather's head, which had always creeped him out, and which broke very prettily when he threw it down the stairs. The bronze plated family crest, painted sometime after he was born for vast sums of gold, didn't really crack nicely, but the dents distorted the dragons until they looked harmless, and disconnected the M until it didn't look like a letter. He'd used the century old silverware to scrape out the photos on the wall, leaving it bent and broken. He left the Black things alone though. He still wasn't sure why, except that without bearing that name himself, he felt they did not belong to him, and he harboured less ill-will to them despite Bellatrix, despite the Black family motto.

By the time he was through, the house was unrecognizable, and Draco was out of breath. He hadn't screamed, or cried, or really made any noise at all. He of course could not be sure, but he had a feeling that the whole thing would have been utterly terrifying to witness.

He left the house in ruins, and walked out of Malfoy Manor for the very last time, destroying the front door and removing the wards for good measure.

.~*~.

For the first decade after the war, Harry Potter disappeared.

He'd remained for the entirety of the post-war trials, speedily conducted in the first year after the Battle of Hogwarts; fear of more hate pushed the trials through faster than normal. By the end of the second year every Death Eater and their family had stood before the Wizengamot. Harry Potter had saved no fewer than twelve families from Azkaban, almost single handed, by telling tales of retribution and bravery. The papers focused largely on those he'd helped convict, but those he saved remembered those twenty four months differently.

And then, in the midst of the press speculation about the exhaustion and darkness in Potter's eyes, he stopped making public appearances. He stopped making appearances at all.

At first, rumours flew and questions were asked of those who'd always known about his whereabouts before Voldemort had fallen. Every day, wilder and wilder conjecture about his new life were printed in The Prophet. But quickly, after only a few weeks really, even wild information dried up. Soon, no one was sure what to do about finding the Saviour of the Wizarding world.

A few years in, as is apt to happen, even the speculation largely ceased. It was boring to report 'still no word' when the headlines could instead read 'Ministry Reorganizing from the Top Down' or 'New Muggle Relations Liaisons, Weasley and Weasley, to Overhaul Secrecy Act'. Not knowing where Harry Potter was became very old news. He slowly became almost a legend; less a real person, less a teenager who'd completed a destined act, and more a bedtime story told to children. More a hero, less a man. It was possible that this had always been Harry Potter's goal, but he wasn't exactly around to ask.

.~*~.

Meanwhile, in a very small Dutch town that overlooked the North Sea, with literal windmills and literal cheese makers, and which was otherwise mostly farmland, a small workshop opened.

A workshop which, to Muggles, sold kitschy handmade figurines of traditional Dutch scenes. Wizards knew, though, that the workshop sold the finest, purest handmade home-cure potions in most of the country. The very blond, very pale owner was kind, and private, and so soft spoken that at times it was hard to hear him. He spoke rough Dutch, which was fine since most people spoke comfortable English. He kept regular hours and was almost never seen outside the shop, not even at the markt, not even at the weekends. No one asked questions, for he garnered none.

At almost the exact same time, though through no connection that either planned, a small flat was purchased in Amsterdam. A one-bedroom and not much else, on the top floor of a new building, just at the edge of the Nieuw-West, full of students and young families, bicycles, and window gardens. The man who moved in called himself Jamie, and kept largely to himself. He nodded to his neighbours in the lifts, always had a smile and sometimes a sweet for their small children, or a pat for their dogs. He owned an orange bicycle which he rode out to the park twice a week, where he seemed to disappear for hours a time. If anyone had been paying attention, they would have noticed that his bicycle remained chained to a fence for exactly three hours, at which point, Jamie would return and ride home. There was little doubt that it was a regular bizarreness, but as it was, no one was paying attention. At least, not enough to notice.

Amsterdam is a large city. It is bustling and cosmopolitan, and although the residents often complained that it was full of students and tourists alone, it was home to over eight hundred thousand permanent residents. There were many museums, bars, cafes, parks. Many old and glorious buildings. Many hospitals and clinics. Many places wherein these eight hundred thousand people were able to disappear. And that was just within the confines of the city itself, not accounting for the fact that the blond spent most of his time nowhere near the city, except for the two hours a week when he Apparated himself across the 18 miles to the centre of the city.

Still, they were not likely to meet. Neither knew of the other's existence. Both men had anonymity freely and with very little additional effort. They remained blissfully ignorant of each other's presence for six years.

This was helped significantly by Jamie's bizarre lifestyle. He spent very little time leaving the city, and knew next to no one. He had, in fact, had spent the past five and a half years doing as little as possible. He really only knew the people he did know for the sake of his photography, picked up as a hobby by accident when he'd found an ancient camera in the cupboard of his first flat.

He'd since upgraded slightly, and spent one additional hour a week in the studio of the ancient Leon, an old Muggle who screamed 'artist' in his very nature. He wore an omnipresent scarf, owned in every shade imaginable. He had very bad eyesight without his ridiculously oversized glasses, and had a shock of ever dwindling hair, with still more in his ears. He was eccentric and charming, and was loved by everyone who met him. Jamie had spent one hour with him in his bright and clean studio each week since he had lived in Amsterdam. Some weeks, the photography lessons were the only time he had intentional human interaction, which was both calculated and extremely sad. It just felt safer that way.

And yet, somehow, this singular hobby began a chain of events that Jamie would never have predicted, and therefore was unprepared for.

It had started a week into an unusually rainy spring. He had been having a hard time with… well, everything. Which meant that Leon's words were hitting him hollowly, and his brain was a million miles away. He was looking in the direction of the photograph that the man was holding, but he wasn't really looking at anything. He was still soaking wet because he'd ridden his bike fifteen blocks in driving rain, and was now with a Muggle who would notice if he was inexplicably dry. In reality, he was already in a terrible mood when things fell further out of his grasp.

"You're getting better."

"Thanks, Leon."

"No thanks needed. This is evidence of hard work. I told you, an eye only counts for so much if you don't focus on the mechanics too. You have good composition, usually. But these... They are beautiful. Where were they taken?"

"Jordaan."

"Ah, yes, I see it now… Noordermarkt, in the square?"

He nodded.

Leon held up one photo, so in front of Jamie's face that he couldn't ignore it.

"I like this one best, see here? I exposed it a little too much, maybe, but it has created a lovely balance. Sometimes, when you shoot in black and white... See this man here? With the very light hair and the sharp profile? You'd have lost him in a dark exposure, and instead, he makes this picture great."

He was distracted. He had barely glanced at the photos up to this point, but when he looked down, he was snapped into the present with great force. He looked intently at the one Leon now held out to him, snatching it hastily and staring.

"I told you. You're getting better. It's a good thing if you can start to see it too."

"No, I... this man seems… I don't know, familiar?"

"You know him? You have lived here a long time, now."

"I doubt it."

"Yes, me too," Leon said with a wry smile. "You don't meet people. You should, you know. Your photos would only get better if you cared about your subjects at all."

"Leon, I really appreciate the dark room help. I have to go, early I know, but I have-"

"An appointment. Of course, my Jamie, of course. With you the Englishman, I always feel just fortunate to have seen you at all. Always rushing about, you are. Careful on that bike in this rain, je gek. Tot ziens."

"Tot ziens, Leon."

When he gets back to the flat within the hour, no actual appointment to get to, he can barely focus enough to heat up a supper. Late into the night, he held the photograph and its negative plate up to the light. He'd turned it this way and that. Finally, he'd abandoned sleep and set up his small makeshift darkroom. He underexposed the photo that Leon had intentionally changed, brought it back to the original light.

And looking at this new copy, clipped into the bright darkness the darkroom provided, he knew. Knew without a shadow of a doubt.

"Of fucking course," was all he said to his empty apartment as the truth dawned on him. "Why not?"


	2. Chapter 2

That same rainy spring, there was another man. The type that no one paid attention to either, but for utterly different reasons. They didn't pay attention to him because he begged them not to; he walked around with a hunched look, and a desperate air of 'please, don't look at me'. And, for the most part, they didn't. Or at least, if they did, they stopped rather quickly. The truth of it, though, was that he was a pretty striking figure. Well over 6 feet tall, with a shock of shortish blond hair and arresting grey-blue eyes, a strange tattoo, and a physique that would have been at home on a Greek marble, the man was anything but unnoticeable. This man preferred winter, since he could bundle himself into great big coats, scarves, hats. Bulky wool sweaters, heavy trousers. In winter, his hunch was attributable to the wind and rain and sleet. In winter, no one looked at him twice and made him flinch.

Spring was a difficult time, when some days were so warm that he was forced to shuck his overcoat, but some days, he was allowed to hide. In spring, he allowed his otherwise rigid schedule to be shifted and adapted by the weather. The Monday he had ventured into the hospital, he'd felt like the overcoat was probably overkill, but the city was rainy and damp, and he felt slightly more justified as he walked into the tall and glass-fronted building in the centre of town.

"Meneer Malfoy, hallo."

Draco offered a rare smile to the kind and calm witch at the front desk. She was pleasant and unquestioning, and he liked her, which was extremely uncommon.

"Hallo, Louisa."

"I am glad to see you today. She is not well."

He felt his brow furrow against his will. There was nothing good to be said for the lack of preamble he was being afforded. News was scarce, since in general, even bad days were built around stability and safety, which he was not always helpful in creating.

"She is never 'well', Louisa. Can you be more specific?"

"She keeps packing up to leave."

"Ah," Draco said, passing a hand through his very wet hair. "One of those days. I will see what I can do. I don't always help, though."

"You do. You do always help, you just can't always fix it," she said, smiling at him softly and reaching across to take his hand gently. It makes him shrink back, the contact, but she smiles again and lifts the receiver of the phone to inform his mother that he has arrived.

He smiled at the nurse wanly, shivered as she threw a motherly drying spell at his head, and walked back towards the ward. The door was unlocked and sitting gently out of the latch, and his mother was on the other side, a large blanket being folded over and over in deft hands.

It always shocked him, just a little, to see how old she looked, how frail. It was a symptom of the larger cause, the reality that she had a hard time eating, that she was on too many meds just to keep her from self-harm or from the pain. Still, it was a shock, to see her grace and her lightness disappeared in this way, so that her frame seemed a quarter of its original size, to see her silver hair limp and dead, to see her great height reduced so.

"Mother?" he said quietly.

"Ah, Draco, my dear boy. Right on time, as usual. I taught you well. A man of good breeding is never late. That case there is ready, if you'd like to take it to the car."

"Mother, there is no car. You live here. Why don't we go for a little walk."

"No time, Draco. We have to get going. We'll be late!"

"Late for what?"

"The trial! Draco, how can you have forgotten. Think what your father would say if we didn't show up! Gracious, no it can't be done."

"Mother," Draco said, sighing slightly and sitting down on the bed. "Mother, the trial was nearly six years ago. Father is in Azkaban. He was not given recompense. His crimes were too… varied. We live here now. You, here, and me, in Zandevoot. The doctors here, they help you. They are the best in Europe. Why don't we put your case away, hm? We can get some lunch and take a stroll through the atrium. I'd take you to the café you like, but it's pouring."

"Is it?"

Narcissa had stopped rummaging in her wardrobe as Draco spoke, and her gaze had become distant and sad. He hated doing this, hated reliving everything, but sometimes, it was the only way to stop the attempts to flee. It may have been six years since the trial, but Draco relived every moment of it some weeks. These episodes were getting less frequent, he supposed, but progress was painfully slow. He knew the doctors felt if he lived closer, he may be more helpful, could visit more often. But he couldn't. The city made him choke, made his breathing grow short. All those people, all the crowds, all the unknown faces. They destroyed him. Better be in his small, seaside town, under notice-me-not most of the time, able to avoid strangers and set his own lifestyle.

He took his mother's hand, and walked her to the tree filled atrium. She was doing fine. Here, she was safe. Here, he didn't ruin her life even more.

.~*~.

He was imagining things, he was sure of it. A good cup of coffee and a headache potion had him convinced that he was just seeing something in nothing; he hadn't been getting a lot of sleep lately, it was true, and that was never a good thing for his sanity. There was very little likelihood that, in a city where he only had a dozen or so acquaintances, he would have accidently photographed anyone he knew in the city square, let alone… that someone.

He shook his head and took a deep breath before he spun into Apparition. After all, it was far, and it took a toll on him on the best of days. He'd risk splinching if he didn't focus. Even with this recalculation, he landed half on one foot. He immediately and automatically took the stabilizing hand and the pumpkin juice that met him when he landed.

"You're late," said the tiny witch in front of him scathingly. "He's waiting."

"I'm always late, and he's always waiting. Why do we have this conversation every time? It's been five years, Yvette."

"Tradition?"

He sighed, not as amused as he might normally have been and wandered into the nondescript office building and up to the third floor.

"Tim."

"Harry. You're late."

"So it would seem."

Timothy Dent was a very short man. It should have served to make him less intimidating, but instead he always appeared rather pit bull like, as though he had to constantly make up for his lack of stature. It wasn't true, given his skills and position in the government, but it had likely been born in a time when it had been a survival tactic and it had never gone away. He was mostly bald, and wore strange, wire framed glasses that sat, most of the time, at the very edge of his nose. He preferred not to look through them until he was reading, and Harry always thought he should just invest in a monocle. It would add humour to the humourless man, at the very least.

"Any news?" he barked now, as unimpressed by Harry's impertinence as Yvette always was. Course, it had been years since he'd tried to charm Dent into anything. Most of the time, he was just angry. Or, they were just angry with each other.

"Not really."

"What's wrong? You look… distracted. Has there been a development?"

"No."

"Cover still in place?"

"Yes," Harry said, scrubbing his face in exasperation. Every week, the meetings were the same. It was all getting a bit tired, and he felt it more than usual today. "Fear not, Timothy Dent. Your genius alias of Jamie Evander, boring 20 something with no life, remains intact."

"We have been over this. The name is not as important as," Tim gestured at the rest of his appearance, "everything else."

He laughed a bitter, humourless laugh. Everything else, Harry thought acridly, was still feeling a bit ridiculous, even so much time later. He still felt like hair dyed lighter and glasses changed, heavy stubble and expensive clothes, were not enough to disguise his identity. Yet, here they were.

"I am, as ever, the Clark Kent to Harry Potter's Superman."

"What?"

"Never mind. No news. Target is boring as ever. How much longer are we going to do this?"

"Harry… please. Let's not do this again. You know what you signed up for."

"Yes."

They sat in silence, regarding each other for a moment, both trying to convey a 'none of your nonsense' look, and therefore, crossing each other out and making the room tense and silent.

"Um," Harry said, finally breaking the silence so he could leave. "You don't know of any other British wizards living in the city, do you?"

Tim looked a little more sharply at him, and paused, calculating, before replying, "What do you mean?"

The reaction was interesting. Harry watched the minute muscles on his face shift, watched as he gripped the paper he held slightly more firmly than was strictly necessary. Dent wasn't normally this transparent, as well trained as Harry himself, and generally very cautious about betraying emotion. For some reason, Harry felt the need to back off rather than pull at the thread he had just loosed.

"It's not important. I was just… wondering."

Dent, however, seemed frustrated, unwilling to let the comment go so easily.

"Well, I suppose you don't mean Garamond Lithopek, aged 84, who has lived in the city for 36 years with his wife Evelien, studying rare plants?"

"Er-"

"Nor do I suppose you are referring to Lucinda Hopkirk, who returns home once a year at Christmas and gets rip-roaring drunk, but who otherwise lives a quiet life in Zeeborg?"

"Um, no, I-"

"No, Harry. There are no other British wizards in Amsterdam that you need to be aware of. If there were, we'd have told you. Why do you ask? I still feel like you're hiding something."

"It's nothing. I was just wondering."

"Hm," Tim replied, clearly unconvinced. "I have new photos."

Harry sat up sharply, annoyed that he had been sitting here for ten minutes with Tim holding the photos the whole time. The man really was a bastard. He reached across the desk expectantly, not speaking as he shuffled through the snaps. Ginny and Neville, smiling down at a snow white kitten. Ron tossing a toddler Rose high, her squealing, Hermione burying her head in her hands in fear. The whole Weasley family sitting at the table, George leaning on Angelina heavily, Molly smiling but wringing her hands in a tea towel. Arthur looked tired, older. Course, they all looked older, didn't they? It had been half a decade since he'd seen them last. He was sure he looked older too.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"I know this is hard, Harry. But you're almost through. You can do this."

"I know. It's just been… harder. Since the total dark. The soft move. It's been…I've been through alot with them. It's hard to have them think I've disappeared completely."

"I understand. It's only a little while longer."

"Yes, I know. Anything else?"

Tim eyed him carefully, but eventually, sat back with tented fingers and shook his head, "You are free to go."

Nodding once, Harry stood up, and Apparated back to his bicycle. The rain was still lashing at the ground like it was trying to beat it into submission, and he rode quickly, not avoiding any of the water.

Freaking spring. Freaking Amsterdam. Freaking life.

He tried to let it go. For a week, he really did try to let it go. He let Jamie slip back into his boring, empty life, just as he always had before. He bought vegetables at the newly supplied market. He got a haircut. He left the house with his camera at the same time each day. He walked Vrouw Van der Burg's dog when she asked.

And yet.

For the first time in almost four years, since he had finally figured out that he was going to be in the Netherlands for a while, Harry was feeling off. Restless. Directionless. And worst of all, he was thinking of himself as Harry. The image of Draco Malfoy in that photo had thrown him for a loop, made it harder to convince himself how separate he was from his real identity. It was like seeing someone from the past had dragged his own past forward. And something felt entirely off about the whole thing. He knew, just knew, that Malfoy being in the same place as him, in the middle of this long term investigation could not be a coincidence. The two things were connected. Since, really, the Netherlands? There was no way that Malfoy had just ended up in the same city as all of this, as Harry.

He did really well when the rain persisted for the next three days. He continued his assignments, and continued his 'portraits of strangers' task from Leon. He was happy with both, and things were progressing the way they should. For five whole days he mostly did nothing at all about the photo, except that he was watching it out of the corner of his eye every day, searching the black and white photo for more clues. The more he looked at it, the more he realized Leon may be right; it was better. Better than anything he'd taken before, possibly.

The starkly market-less square was all but empty, a few stragglers further into the background, fuzzy and non-distinct. There were the café tables and the striped awning, the cobbles still wet from the rain the day before. And yet there was Malfoy, confusingly in the foreground, turning his head to check for traffic before he walked into the street. There wasn't much detail that he could read from the image, with no colour and no close-up. The grown-up Malfoy wore a dark tinted overcoat, lightweight by all appearances, and well-trimmed trousers. His hair was shorter than it had been before, but he was clean shaven and hatless.

Of course, none of these things mattered, but they were maddening to Harry; he'd been in the street at the same time as Malfoy, right there, and he had taken the freaking photo. But he'd been in 'play like a photographer' mode, and in the viewfinder he'd likely only seen composition and light and balance. The details had all been lost in favour of looking at the whole, which was both exactly what he had been trying to do, and completely against his training. And he was mad at himself for letting his one hobby stop him from finishing his case, stop him from getting back to his friends. Because there was no way the Malfoy thing was unrelated.

So, he did pretty well as the rain lashed down, but the rain also made it very easy to fixate. When the sun broke through the following Monday, and corrected the washed out colours on the streets of Amsterdam, Harry's heart beat a bit faster. Because without even realizing it, he had formulated a plan, and the clear weather meant he could put it into action. He grabbed his helmet and ran down the stairs instead of waiting for the lift.

He was going to find Malfoy.

As he rode, he breathed deeply. The sun was doing wonders for the world. The canals glinted in the brilliance, reflecting the green of the newly budded trees and the blue of the crystalline sky. The many coloured low boats flooded the laneways, taking advantage of the weather change for a jaunt through the city. The bike lanes were similarly crowded, but not in the grumpy way they were during the morning commute. Gentle waves instead of angry bells, and smiles from city dweller to city dweller instead of frustrated shouts.

Jordaan was similarly a completely different place today than it was the day of the photograph. The flea market was in full swing, and the colourful stalls were vibrant and loud. The café tables on the edge of the square were full to bursting. He locked his bike to a stand by the canal and wandered through the trinkets and stalls smiling fondly at the merchants trying to call him out. He had a firm eye open all around him, but was trying to remain normal externally. After all, he had no idea what he was hoping for. Why did he believe that being back in this square was going to accomplish anything? Except that he was lying to himself.

That photo had been taken on a Monday too. At around 3pm. Because while he may not have been paying attention to the frame or the snap, he knew where he was at all times. He could account for almost every moment of his days, because he was trained to. There was no telling when something might become important, later, and he had to pay attention to the moments. So he knew, for instance, that week, when he had taken the photo, he had been in the Jordaan neighbourhood, on the Eastern corner of the square, at around 3pm, just after the market had closed down and the vendors had all packed up their stalls early because the rain had made buisness slow. He knew that it had just stopped, that the light had gotten very good because it wasn't blazing sunlight, but not abysmal darkness either. So yes, Monday. Three o'clock.

Just as it was now.

He is still wandering, eyes open. Constant vigilance, his brain supplied, making him smile to himself, when he catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

And the thing that he had not been allowing his brain to confirm is confirmed in a heartbeat.

Before he can control his hands, his arms raise and he clicks. One, two, seven, fifty. He clicks and clicks, catching in slow, frozen, Muggle motions. Freezing the images of a tall, clean shaven, white-blond man, wearing a light spring jacket, and woollen grey trousers, and clicky, pointed, fussy looking shoes.

And then he flees. He goes straight home and he develops the film. These photos look distinctly different from the last. They are almost stalker like, definitely surveillance. Inch by inch movements of a six-year-older Draco Malfoy, with too short hair and knowing eyes, and a stance that begs the world not to notice him. He means to take the photos to Tim right away, for he knows he has been evaded, and lied to, but he finds he is exhausted. Instead, though it is only seven at night, he curls himself into his bed, in his sparse and empty bedroom, and is asleep almost at once.

He is dragged back into consciousness in the middle of the night by the tug of his wand, a locating spell pinging and going wild. Leaping up, running, moving quickly and yet silently, the photos are briefly forgotten as the case he is actually supposed to be pursuing changes drastically.

.~*~.

"You knew!" he screamed, tearing into the office and shouting at a quickly standing Tim, whose wand was drawn in shock. He brandished the photograph forward, although the look on Tim's face told him he did not need proof, or even additional information.

"Yes. What kind of intelligence service would we be if we didn't keep track of these things."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry shouted.

"Well, this reaction is definitely one reason. But also, you didn't actually need to know. Think about it, for just a moment, Mr. Potter."

"I didn't need to know? How is this not relevant to my investigation?!"

"Because Mr. Malfoy is not under investigation."

"And what makes you think he shouldn't be? Huh? The fact that he is also in the Netherlands is just a… a coincidence? A little convenient, don't you think? The whole of Europe and he chooses to be-"

"He has not chosen this place. He was forced here."

"What? No, no he wasn't. I was at his trial. He was given full reprieve. He could be anywhere."

"Oh yes, anywhere he chooses, is that right? So you suggest that he could just walk down the streets in Britain? Come Harry, you saw before you left. You know what they would have done. Besides, that is not the reason."

"Then why, Dent? Why does he have to be in the Netherlands? Why are we not worried about that?"

"Well, Potter, there is a facility here that is unparalleled in the rest of Europe. One that Mr. Malfoy needed to have regular access to."

Harry thought for a moment, then looked down.

"Narcissa."

"Indeed. Now, I am quite worried about you. I think we should discuss you're reassignment, returning you to-"

"What," Harry said carefully. "No. Dent. Tim. No, I'm sorry. I'm fine."

"This? This is 'fine'?" Dent said, raising his voice in a rare show of anger. "Unauthorized surveillance on a private citizen?"

"I thought it might be relevant."

"And now that you know it is not?"

"I won't bother him again. I swear. There's… well, there's been a development. It's why I actually came today."

"And?"

"He met with a wandmaker."

Tim stood again. "Which wandmaker?"

"Galloway."

"So, not who we suspected."

"No."

"Problematic."

"Yup."

"Proceed with the plan."

"But-"

"Harry, Proceed. With the plan."

"Yes, sir.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco spent the next three weeks trying to formulate a plan.

He failed. Miserably.

Sighing to himself one Tuesday, and resigning himself to the continued reality that he wasn't actually in control of his own life, he hung a sign in his shop window. This, of course, led to as big an uproar as he had ever seen in Zandevoot. Which was to say, three people stood outside his shop the next morning in dismay.

"Meneer, surely you don't mean 'one month'," Mr. Bakker finally said to him. He was the most confident of the older generation in his English. He often landed as spokesperson for the rest. Now, he looked at Draco with judgement in his eyes. "You have the translation wrong."

"Nee, Meneer Bakker, I do mean one month. I have to be in the city for a time, and it makes more sense to not keep coming back here each night."

"Where am I to get the dittany my wife swears by?"

"I wish things were different, but, unfortunately-"

"I hope things are well?"

Draco cringed. He saw that he was going to have to give them more information, which always terrified him because for each piece of himself he gave away, he felt less in control. Each fact meant they were closer to figuring him out. It was why they didn't even really know his name. They never really asked, because it wasn't polite, but now? They needed more if he was going to both close and keep his client base, both of which he needed to do.

"My mother is not well. She needs me, or else I would of course stay here. I can arrange standing orders once I am a bit more settled. As of now, it will only be a month. Perhaps you can purchase the Dittany in excess supply? It has quite a stable shelf life."

"Ooh, dear," Mr. Bakker said, and the others muttered along with him as he spoke the politest words that had ever been directed at him, the kindest words of well-wishing Narcissa had ever received. He felt painfully close to tearing up at the sincerity of their concern.

He took Draco's hand in his own, and his gaze softened as he said solemnly, "Ik hoop dat ze snel en binnenkort zal beter worden."

"Mijn dank, Meneer Baaker."

The following day, he shrank down his one case, the only things he would need in his squalid rental flat in a student building in the city. He threw his kettle in, for good measure, then Apparated straight to the hospital. The plan was to see his mother every day, see if they could get her used to his presence, see how many hours she could handle the wider world. Then he could move her back with him, and she could live with him above the shop. After all, the mandated years she was required to spend in care were almost up, and without Ministry support, he wasn't sure he was going to be able to continue to pay the fees. He no longer had access to his family money, and he made a sustainable but meager living on his own. He needed to prepare for the next phase.

It was raining in Amsterdam when he arrived, but he didn't really mind. He felt like it was easier to enter the city when the weather was keeping many people inside. Maybe he could acclimatize to the crowds if he did it slowly. Like a lobster boiling alive.

He sighed. Dramatic. That was Draco Malfoy, alright. He was annoyed with himself for being so ridiculous. He wandered into the lobby of the too-bright hospital, squinting and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the flooding artificial light after the storm darkness outside. And as soon as they did, he forced himself to hide behind a large ficus tree. Because, the person at the reception desk looked disturbingly familiar. Yet… not. He was a familiar height, a familiar stance, but that was it. He tried desperately to remember why he might know a sandy-haired man around his age in Amsterdam, and when he couldn't quantify it, he resigned himself to the fact that he was probably overreacting. But he also stayed half-hidden behind the tree until the man backed away from the counter and walked back out of the building.

Today, as they walked around the city, Narcissa was in maudlin spirits, gushing to Draco about his childhood, dragging every passing sign into some 'treasured memory'. A few hours of this false remembering had him grinding his teeth and sighing, but he tried his hardest to stay pleasant and kind. She didn't mean to do this. At least, today, she remembered the war, and why she was in Amsterdam. And he didn't bring up a move in locale, because she seemed sentimental about her hospital friends and the staff as well, and he was terrified of talking her out of that mood. By the time he dropped her back for dinner, he was exhausted, and he sought out the quietest, most run-down and half empty bar he could find to have himself a drink and some chips. He only felt marginally better afterwards.

.~*~.

Harry lied to himself and pretended that his failed experiment at the hospital was the end of the line. He had completely understood the stance of the witch at the front desk; the hospital may have looked like a resort in the lobby, but it did in fact contain many vulnerable witches and wizards. He was a stranger, with no credentials, no claim to see Narcissa Malfoy, a woman he had to assume had few visitors. He wouldn't have let himself in either.

Despite his assurances to Dent, Harry could not ignore the constant image of Malfoy surreptitiously walking the streets of Amsterdam, and he definitely could not shake the feeling that something wasn't right. That glance, the 'don't notice me' gait - they were all too reminiscent of sixth year. Harry couldn't stop himself from wanting to investigate.

It's just because I'm investigator, he would tell himself as he left his flat each morning.Because I figure these things out by following. It's just my job.

Regardless of whether this internal dialogue was true, Harry was now following Draco Malfoy, and that was so reminiscent of him in sixth year that he had to completely dissociate himself from his subject in order to overcome the wash of shame and self-loathing that would hit him in the chest as he found the blond each morning. The man appeared to be living in a small student building on a busy street, and like Harry himself, did not appear to be doing very much with this life at all.

Each day, Harry would bike his way across town to sit outside the flats. He would bring a newspaper, sometimes a book. He concealed his bike and never sat in the same place two days in a row. For all intents and purposes, however, his automatic surveillance techniques were completely unnecessary. No one in the area seemed to pay a lick of attention to anyone else; they were always rushing, running between one task and the next, half the time with their heads down or in a book as they ran to get to classes.

Very rarely, the person leaving the flats in a rush was Malfoy. So rarely, in fact, that Harry began to feel sort of pointless waiting for him. He knew Malfoy's schedule after just two weeks. Mondays and Thursdays at 2pm he would leave the flat and head straight to the hospital. On nice days, Malfoy would reappear with Narcissa Malfoy on his arm after a few short minutes, and they would spend the afternoon wandering the markets, or sitting at a café table beside the canal, chatting easily. Sometimes, Malfoy would buy his mother a scarf, or a hat. Sometimes she would steer them inside the various shops along the canal. When he returned with her to the Hospital some hours later, he would leave again with a small smile on his face and a spring in his step. When it rained, however, he would only stay inside for an hour, two at the most. He almost always left with a scowl on his face and his shoulders hunched, and even from a distance, Harry could sense his disquiet.

On Tuesday mornings, Malfoy would run down to the local supermarket. He would buy one modest bag of groceries, and Harry discovered through careful observation that the bag usually contained some sort of fish, and various vegetables, one box of tea, a small pint of milk, and every once in awhile, a bag of assorted pastries. Malfoy didn't go to many stores and he didn't buy fancy brands, and at first, it had shocked Harry; this was, after all, Malfoy, king of fancy poshness.

On Wednesday and on the weekend, Harry rarely saw Malfoy leave the flat. He wasn't entirely sure if this was because on Wednesday and Friday, Harry had less time than other days to observe. He had his lesson with Leon, his meeting with Dent, and then his neighbours would force him to come over for dinner at least once on the weekend. This left him with less time to figure out if those were the days where Malfoy was being nefarious instead of just downright dull.

Malfoy occasionally left the flat for the sole purpose of obtaining caffeine. This often occurred on the days when he seemed to not leave any other time. It was the most disheveled Malfoy ever appeared, and he still looked more put together than half the students that left the same building. Harry would watch as he half ran on light feet, down the steps of his building, never in a coat despite the fact that the month was still chilly. He usually wore well cut and tailored looking jeans, and unbuttoned Henleys, always in dark colours. His hair was soft and just short enough to look off kilter. Sometimes he even wore trainers, which looked wrong and out of place. He would only ever be gone for five minutes or so, before he returned looking far too pleased with himself, gripping a giant takeaway cup.

Ultimately, if anyone had asked for a report during the month that Harry watched Malfoy, he would have had no idea what to tell them.

One thing was very clear; unless Malfoy's apartment was full of dark artifacts and potions, the man was doing nothing wrong. He met no one. He didn't seem to be working. He didn't buy big parcels or bring home strange bags. If Harry were asked for his professional opinion, he would have had to classify Draco Malfoy as 'not of interest'. It irked him that Dent appeared to have been right. But more importantly, he was pretty angry at himself for falling into old patterns. Why on earth did he have such a hard time believing that no one but Harry Potter was capable of clearing the name of Draco bloody Malfoy?

Finally, the fourth week in, Harry had to admit to himself, that he had crossed the line to full on stalker. He couldn't convince himself much longer that he was here on a professional basis.

And worse, all this time spent trying to catch Malfoy out had been detrimental to his actual purpose in the city. He had missed at least one clandestine meeting at the flat of Ernst Galloway, and considering he still had not worked out the connection between the wand maker and the Death Eater's son, that was very problematic.

Why a distinguished and respected wand maker would be taking clients at his flat should have been Harry's chief concern, and since it had not been, he had missed something important. He didn't tell Dent, because he didn't want to hear about it.

The first week of May, Harry finally admitted defeat and tried to turn his attention back fully to his case; unfortunately for everyone involved, it was this very attention that dragged the Malfoy's back into his focus.


	4. Chapter 4

That Tuesday, Harry was painfully chatting up Galloway's irritating intern at the front desk, trying to convince the man to give him information under the guise of being a new client. He had managed to catch a glimpse of Galloway's diary on the desk; Tuesday, Galloway was marked as _'out of office-- St. Willibrord, NM. 14:00.'_

Now, technically, Harry had no evidence. But six years of following trails made of wisps and whispers had made him cautious, and this was neither a whisper nor a wisp. It might as well have been a shouted message from across a rooftop. St. Willibrord was a famous institution, and that would have been enough for him to recognise it by name, but more importantly, Harry had been there before. He had stood in the lobby just one month ago and attempted to inquire himself about patient 'NM'. There are coincidences, and then there are moments of just pure and blatant lucky breaks. He took it for what it was.

In his own defence, Harry had waited three more days, trying not to tip off Galloway that he knew something. He was sure the man knew someone was following him, and he couldn't risk any more sightings from the surprisingly shrewd pensioner. Careful, also, that he was not going to run into a younger Malfoy, Harry finally steeled his nerves on Friday morning and walked into the hospital. He stood in front of the same terrifyingly steadfast witch at the front desk, and was as unsuccessful at convincing her that he needed to see Narcissa Malfoy as he had been before.

By the time his next lucky break occurred, he had been arguing with her for a full fifteen minutes. They were both interrupted by a slight but very deliberate cough. The witch behind the desk looked up and smiled brilliantly. It was rather at odds with the way she had just been speaking to him, and Harry was annoyed, until he turned and felt the blood drain from his face.

There, in front of him, was Narcissa Malfoy.

He had not seen her since they  trials. She looked only slightly better now. Her slight frame had not filled out, and her hair was severely chopped into a serviceable bob. It made her angular face, so similar to that of his former classmate, even more stark and drawn looking. He forced himself to break his gaze and looked at the ground, terrified about what was to happen next. She had every bit of leverage right now; he knew she recognised him.

"Hello, Louisa darling," Mrs. Malfoy began, a light, musical tone to her voice that Harry had never heard before. "I was just wandering through the atrium to look at the spring buds, and I couldn't help but hear my name. Is something the matter?"

"It's nothing Mrs. Malfoy, nothing. This man and are just having a slight disagreement. Insists he has to visit you, but not to worry. We know you are only to have one-"

"Goodness,” Mrs. Malfoy interrupted, her eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “I haven't seen you in an age, have I? How like your father you look now." 

He did not respond, and she seemed surprised. She turned to look at the witch behind the desk.

“Louisa, I apologise, especially since you have been such a good security guard. But I have been remiss; this gentleman and I are old friends. I didn't realise he was still in the city, or I would have put him on the list."

Narcissa's smile remained firmly in place, but there was no mistaking the set to her chin or the glassy glare in her eyes as she looked at Louisa, demanding that she give in; clearly, not that much had changed. Everything in the Malfoy matriarch's posture still reeked of wealth and commandeered respect, even if she was only asking for a small, inconsequential favour.

"I- well, okay. If you are sure," Louisa said, clearly uncomfortable. It made Harry wonder, not for the first time, what exactly Narcissa was doing in this particular facility. Still, she turned back to him and tried visibly to shake off her anger.

" _Meneer_ Evander, did you say? First name?"

"Er, Jamie."

"Fine, I shall add you to the approved list. Mrs. Malfoy, I suggest you let Draco know you have added the name."

"Of course dear. Jamie, tea?"

Harry followed Narcissa Malfoy cautiously across the atrium to the fake and very strange little café that sat at the other end, looking for all the world like a Parisian sidewalk restaurant, complete with awning and umbrella tables. He wasn't sure why his little act had been played into, why Mrs. Malfoy had not uttered his real name in front of Louisa, or why he was currently being led to tea with the mother of his former rival, a woman he had not seen properly since he had _died_ in the middle of battle. Yet, he felt like his only course of action was to lightly and carefully grip his wand and follow her.

He watched as she chatted with  the pleasant looking young man behind the window, joking with him easily and on a first name basis. He followed her to an empty table and she sat across from him, placing a paper cup of lukewarm tea in front of him.

"I am afraid that I shall have to rely on you to cast some wards around us, _Jamie._ I find myself disturbingly without a wand these days."

Harry jolted slightly, but nodded and cast a _Muffilato_ and a detection spell. He watched the slight glimmer at the edges of the tables, and waited for Mrs. Malfoy to continue.

"Mr. Potter, it is shocking to see you admitting your presence to me. I have, of course, been aware of you following Draco and I for some weeks now. He's never been that… observant, I'm afraid. Of course, he rather believes that no one would be looking for him here. I don't really know how he has managed to secure himself in such a delusion, but he is happy, so I didn't say anything.”

He sat silently again, but this time, he was not given the luxury of not answering. Mrs. Malfoy’s glare grew very steely.

“What are you doing here?" she said pointedly a moment later.

Harry was not fully over the shock of having been spotted while following, or recognised through his, admittedly poor, disguise, and it took him a moment to respond.

"I can't.…Mrs. Malfoy, why didn't you say my name out there with Louisa?"

"Well, Mr. Potter, I can't imagine that these new additions to your appearance are for the sake of shaking things up….being a blond really does not suit you, I am guessing you know that. I assumed you were aiming for anonymity. It would have served neither of us to out you as your famous alter ego, now would it?"

Once again, Harry didn't respond. He took a sip of his rather gross tea and paused to allow the reality before him to sink in.

"I don't know what it is you think Draco has done, but- "

"I'm not here because of Draco. Or you," he added quickly.

"You aren't?"

"No. I…I didn't mean to interfere. I'm sorry. I've stopped following him. "

"Yes, I assume you have rather a few other things going on you need to focus on."

"Mrs. Malfoy, I'm sorry to have interrupted your afternoon. I'll just be going now. I would…I should be _Obliviating_ you,” Harry said carefully, trying not to sound like his threat was actually threatening.

"We both know you are not going to do that,” Mrs. Malfoy replied, as though he was a fly beneath her shoe. “But, I also suspect that you aren't actually going to leave."

"No, Mrs. Malfoy, I _am_ going to leave. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't tell Mal- er, Draco, that I was here, but I am also not going to stop you from telling him if you want to. Now, if you'll excuse me-"

He stood up, shaking out his jacket a little bit. He didn't miss wearing robes until he was in situations like this. He felt uncomfortably like he needed to reorganise all of his clothing, but he restrained himself from tugging on his shirt, pulling out his trousers, tucking in his sleeves. Something about the direct and unblinking gaze of Narcissa Malfoy's pale and icy eyes made him feel like it would be undignified. He inclined his head slightly as though to challenge her back, even though he wasn't entirely sure a challenge was being presented, and he took a step as though to leave.

"Mr. Potter," Narcissa said slowly. He paused. "If you leave now, I promise you that you will regret it. You will not have heard my business proposal. Which would be a shame, since I am relatively sure that you could use the information I have for you."

"Mrs. Malfoy-"

"The information I have for you surrounding your case, the one involving a Mr. Ambroz Palacky?"

"Narcissa," Harry tried, eyeing her carefully and raising his wand slightly, caution flooding into his actions.

"Who," she continued as though she was not under threat. "Is of course the very well hidden son of one Antonin Dolohov? And who is genuinely up to no good in the streets of Amsterdam."

She adjusted the sleeves of her jumper, and quietly took her tea in hand. Harry fell heavily back into his metal chair and kept his wand lifted as he stared at her open mouthed.

When Harry Potter left the Hospital two hours later, he felt very discombobulated.

First and foremost, he felt he understood slightly better how Draco Malfoy had grown up; he had only ever really given any thought to what Lucius Malfoy must have been like as a father, largely because he'd only ever had interaction with Lucius. He hadn't fully appreciated what _Narcissa_ Malfoy was like. She was not to be trifled with, and she expressed her cool and calculated power without raised voice or anger. Harry laughed slightly when he tried to imagine a small Malfoy telling his mother that he did not _want_ to clean his room.

Secondly, he had the distinct feeling that he had wasted the past five years; Mrs. Malfoy insisted that she had information that would derail his current case. He knew she wasn't lying. She had too many details, knew too many of his contact names, had too many personal facts of these people for it to be a coincidence. He just felt fortunate that she appeared to be on his side as an ally. He wasn't sure how he was going to approach the situation with Dent, if he was going to at all. He had tried to avoid giving away anything in regards to _what_ he was investigating, but she hadn't really asked him any questions at all. It had made the entire conversation much more uncomfortable, really. As Mrs. Malfoy had spoken, she had slowly handed him piece after piece of his own case, speaking of people and places that he hadn't spoken to anyone of, at all. Ever.

Lastly, in the most confusing of his emotions, he suddenly felt inexplicably less alone in this beautiful and horribly bright city. He had always sort of loathed Amsterdam, mostly for being so perfectly difficult to hate. The city, no matter what else it was, was unapologetic and welcoming. He felt utterly ridiculous that an unexpected afternoon of having a frank and open conversation with one other human had suddenly made him feel alive and necessary.

Faced with bright sunshine, he didn’t go back to his flat right away.  Instead, he went down to the pub up the road and ate a ham and chips, a food that was generally improved significantly by Dutch cooking. Stomach full, but still confused, he decided to have another pint. Standing at the bar forced him to spot his neighbours a few tables away, and he surprised everyone-- including himself-- when he joined them, too much congenial encouragement.

The three men gathered there happily switched to English, and asked few questions of their new companion, making small talk about their jobs and their weeks. For the next few hours Harry was struck by the reality that he likely could have been doing this all along. A few throw away statements about his photography and the weather, and he is in like Flynn. Nobody seemed suspicious of him, no one asked for details. People don't, generally. He had forgotten what normal people are like, forgotten that when not at the height of war, people are not wary of every interaction with others. Generally, people are far more concerned with themselves than anyone else.

That night, when he goes to bed, it is with a weird grin on his face, and he doesn't know what to do with that emotion. Technically, his day had consisted of being caught and coerced by a former enemy, and possibly losing hold of an investigation that he thought he had almost solved. Smiling is the last thing he should be doing.

 _Fucking Malfoys_ , he thought as he drifted. _Bloody fucking Malfoys._


	5. Chapter 5

Suddenly, Harry had another weekly meeting to attend, one that was being kept off the records by a confusingly congenial Louisa, a witch who remained terrifying to Harry while still being firmly on his side- even if she did suspect that his name wasn't Jamie. She said it each time he arrived at the hospital with a smirk that suggested there was something she didn't believe about him. He figured it was the stupid name, but he couldn't be sure. She would calmly pretend she was going to call Narcissa in her room, while each time, Narcissa would saunter out before she had called. Their little play was sort of charming, despite the reality that neither of them actually had much control or freedom in their respective lives.

The third time Harry showed up to have tea with Mrs. Malfoy, he was just starting to edge into frustration. That first afternoon, she had convinced him that she had information he was going to need for his case, and hinted that their connection could be mutually beneficial. But, three meetings and six hours later, Harry had been given no information that was at all useful. Instead, he was rehashing childhood memories and being made to feel like a petulant man-boy about half the time. The rest of the time, he spent in awe of the regal kindness that Narcissa Malfoy showed him and everyone else.

Just as he was about to give up all polite thought and ask her outright, Narcissa put down her teacup in a decidedly final way, folded her arms carefully on the table, and stared at him with hard, hooded eyes.

"You know, Mr. Potter, there is a moment sometime shortly after someone learns they are to become a parent when they are gripped by a terrible, bone-chilling fear. It isn't really… easy to describe. It is unnameable. But I think it's about the reality that you are now so much less important than the being you are in charge of."

She paused, continued to stare at him, daring him to talk. Harry didn't answer. He assumed she had a point.

"I don't trust you," she added harshly.

Harry was taken back, and he answered without thinking, "I know, Mrs. Malfoy. I don't trust you either."

"I know," she said, laughter in her eyes. "Though I appreciate you being so frank with me. I am telling you out loud so that you know to take me seriously when I tell you the things I am going to tell you. I am doing it to save my child. Again. Keeping him safe has been the only thing that has ever mattered."

Harry looked at her for a moment. He wondered how much she remembered of the night of the battle. Was it possible that she didn't remember her act of desperate and dangerous duplicity, the one committed for Draco that had ended up saving them all? Regardless, he had the confusing urge to reassure her, to let her know that he knew why she was here.

"I know, Mrs. Malfoy. I know that," Harry said quietly. He may not have known fully that he could trust this woman, but he did know that she loved her son.

"Well, I suppose you do more than most. Alright. I am going to tell you a story. You should settle in."

Harry inclined his head, and in this simple gesture, tried to convey that he understood. He understood the risk she was taking. Understood what she had to lose. Understood what she was giving up by just sitting here with him. The story that she proceeded to tell him made it all moot; the information she had was deadly.

"When Antonin Dolohov announced that his favourite…er, concubine was with child, it was well before the first war. We were all quite young, then. Foolish. I had just married Lucius, and I couldn't imagine having a child outside of a pure and high-born marriage. Antonin disgusted me," Narcissa began, a coy and out-of-place smile on her face. If Harry hadn't known better, it would have appeared that she was reminiscing about a particularly sunny day. He tried not to shudder. He tried to remember that things were different now. She didn't pause to let him settle either way.

"Lucius, as usual, was a bit more future-thinking. He encouraged him to marry Nedda Palacky; it wasn't hard, I think he actually believed at the time that he loved her. Lucius helped him cover up the mixing of blood, helped find a pureblood connection for him. There was paperwork, but the community was harder to convince. When Ambroz was born, Antonin sent them both to live with his mother in Poland, just for a while. Living in the Dolohov family home was not good for either of them, but at least they all survived. Antonin returned to England during the first war. No one outside the circle even knew that he had had a son."

"I had heard that he was kept a secret. It is one of the things we have pretty reliable information on," Harry said.

Narcissa nodded, and he felt oddly pleased that he had the correct information on this one. He was quickly feeling very out of his depths.

"Dolohov quickly gained favour, and I am sure you can guess why. He was particularly….cruel, and complete in his hatred for Muggles. I didn't ever know him well enough to figure out why; it may have just been pure and unadulterated racism, but I feel like it was deeper than that. No matter. You know the actions of that man far more intimately than I'm sure you would like."

"Yes," Harry said darkly, interrupting. "I can do without a recounting of that story."

Narcissa looked almost apologetic, "Fortunately for both of us that is not the story I am telling. The more important thing is that during that time, Ambroz stayed with his mother and grandmother in Poland. He was never sent to school. It was many years before anyone knew why."

"He's a squib."

Harry was now thoroughly frustrated. So far, Mrs. Malfoy had not changed any of the facts, which is what he had been promised. He knew Palacky was a squib. He knew he had grown up abroad. He was only here because he'd been promised new details.

"Only half true, Mr. Potter. And that, I'm afraid, is precisely the problem. How aware of you are the old superstitions around Squibs?"

"Erm, I've done some…research."

"Research like that must be dangerous in these post-war times."

"I have good connections," he said, more defensively than he felt.

"I am sure you do," Narcissa conceded with a faint smile. "In this, I think mine may be better. Regardless, I am going to tell you this as though you don't know. It will be important."

Harry inclined his head again, pouring himself another cup of tea.

"Well, I'm sure you know that children of magical parents who do not exhibit magical abilities are normally referred to as Squibs."

"Um, Mrs. Malfoy-"

"Hush, dear. Let me finish. This is what you do not know. Pureblood families sometimes also spent a lot of time and gold convincing others that their perfectly normal children were, in fact, squibs."

"What?" Harry interrupted again. "Why on earth-"

"Harry."

"Sorry."

"Knowing what you know of the pride of Pureblood wizards, you may well be surprised, Harry. But consider that there are things worse than bearing a child who cannot perform magic."

"Mrs. Malfoy, I have a hard time believing you on that, knowing what I know."

"Yes, well. Some families," Mrs. Malfoy started, but her words petered away.

She had a far off look in her eye. She had stopped looking at Harry directly. It was rather disturbing. She seemed to shake her head slightly, and returned from wherever she was. When her gaze came to rest back on his face, Harry felt her shifting eyes as they moved between his now faint scar, the strange frames of his glasses, the sandy hair. She frowned, but continued.

"There was something to be said for this tactic; it was most often used when old families decided that there had been a bad marriage, or when the child was born of a mistress the family wanted to hush up. The pride of untainted blood was harder to overcome than the pride of non-magic children. It was easier to swallow that children were shunned or removed from the family tree entirely if they were Squibs. There is evidence that the practice was used for many centuries; it likely explains how the magic in the blood of the first families remained so…erm, pure."

Harry wanted to be shocked. Wanted to be disgusted. But unfortunately, the past five years had taught him too much about the practices of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' to be thrown by much of anything anymore. Frankly, there were many stories he had read about that were significantly more nefarious, and they made the act of intentionally repressing and then shunning a child seem tame. He shuddered slightly at the realisation that he wasn't even surprised.

Narcissa was not finished trying to disquiet him, however.

"Unfortunately, the Dolohov boy… I have heard many accounts, Harry. Accounts about a very unhappy childhood. Given his parentage, it may not surprise you, but I hope that you will still find it in your soul to feel pity. Ambroz did not have a nice time in Poland. In addition to never being able to admit his true surname, and therefore enjoy the protection it may have afforded him, he was treated by his paternal family like dust on the boot of a shoe, at best, and as vermin to be eradicated at worst."

"Mrs. Malfoy, I don't understand. What does this have to do with my case? I am aware of the fact that Ambroz is a dangerous man, magic or not."

"But Harry, if my sources are correct, and the usually are, it is more than that. As I understand it, from the time he was very small, Hélène Dolohov made sure that Ambroz was severely punished for every magical accident her grandson committed. Eventually, his magic fizzled a bit, hid itself away. I imagine even he began to believe he was a squib."

"But, Mrs. Malfoy…that's…"

"Barbaric? Horrifying? I am sure it is many things, but I think the word you are looking for in this context is deadly. Yes, Mr. Potter. I think that is the case. Because it is highly likely that Ambroz Palacky Dolohov is not, in actual fact, a squib. Because magic, as you know, is like energy- it cannot be created or destroyed. It just is."

"But then-"

"Yes. Exactly."

They sat in silence for a moment. Narcissa sighed slightly. Harry was categorizing, resorting.

"I suspect I need to continue for this story to make sense," Narcissa said quietly.

"How can there be more!" Harry scrubbed at his face, and braced himself. He was almost sad that the horrible tea was gone. "Okay, go on."

"I can't," Narcissa said sadly, folding her hands and looking remorseful.

"I-I'm sorry, what?"

"Well, my agreement to you was that I would provide you with useful information about your suspect. I have done that. I have more useful information, but I don't really see why I should tell you more."

He stuttered for a moment.

"Mrs. Malfoy, I am a very powerful member of the government," he answered, trying to use his most threatening voice.

He knew immediately that he had been unsuccessful. Narcissa's blithe smile remained firmly on her face, so at odds with what she was saying that it would have been funny in any other context.

"Don't try and frighten me, Mr. Potter. I have known far scarier wizards than you. It won't work, and it is beneath you. Besides, I simply propose a trade. There is something I need assistance with, and should you be able to provide it, our connection becomes much more stable and the equality we share will certainly loosen my tongue."

Harry stared at Narcissa Malfoy hard. He wasn't, of course, the least bit surprised. He had assumed since the first time he had not fled from the Hospital when she had recognised him that at some point, he was going to have to give her something in return. This family, in his experience, were strictly quid pro quo.

"Oh relax, dear boy," Narcissa seemed to be laughing at him a little bit, and it made him angry. "Goodness, I forget that you're experiences with my family have been so… sordid. My mind makes these things seem very distant."

"I'm sorry if that is not how I remember things," Harry ground out.

"I know. Don't worry, though. This particular thing is not against the law. Or dangerous. A little sneaky, perhaps, and certainly morally shaky, considering money will be involved. But, I simply need you to use connections that I wager you already have and are more than willing to abuse. And the only person I will ask you to hide this transaction from is my son."

No matter how he spun it, getting the knowledge that Mrs. Malfoy had was essential. So he listened to what she had to say, what she was asking for. Harry wasn't sure how she had worked it out, but she was disturbingly accurate in her estimation of him. Not only was he almost immediately on board with what she purposed, but he was instantly angry that there needed to be a conversation about it at all. Half an hour later, he was embarrassingly close to crying as he reached across the table.

"You know, I never thought, exactly, that I'd be saying this, but I feel like I need to apologise. For… I don't know. The Ministry. For not doing more."

"You did more than you ever had to, Harry Potter, and I never want you to say again that you did not."

He nodded, not meaning it.

"You know, you are so much like Severus. It's very strange. Except, that it isn't at all really."

"I'm… I'm like Snape?"

"Yes. Without the tragedy. Don't let the bitterness in, and you should escape his fate. Do you think, then, that you can help me?"

"Yes, although, Mrs. Malfoy, I think we could have done this without the coercion. I didn't realise it had even happened. It isn't fair, or right. I could have fixed it if you had just asked."

She smiled at him lightly, "Please, call me Narcissa. And perhaps that is true. You'll have to excuse the lack of trust. I forget we are not all Malfoys and Slytherins and Purebloods. Very well. I shall finish my tale."

"Not today," Harry said, surprising even himself. Narcissa looked very pale, very tired all of a sudden. Relief, he assumed. He felt no desire for her to continue.

"Let's get some more tea," he said. "Tell me about Louisa's cat. You never finished that last time. I have enough on Palacky for this week. You can tell me the rest of the Dolohov story next time."

"You'll be returning then? How interesting."

"Yes, well. I'm rather lonely."

Harry blushed immediately. He wasn't sure what had come over him. That had not at all been what he'd been planning on saying, and he was still holding Narcissa's hand.

"I mean-"

"There is no shame in admitting loneliness, Mr. Potter. It takes a strong person indeed to admit to themselves that they are unhappy. It strikes me that you and my son would learn much from each other."

Harry might have scoffed, although he also did not mean to do that.

"Oh, don't worry, Harry," Narcissa said laughing. "That was not a suggestion that you try."

.~*~.

When he left the hospital that afternoon he was running disastrously late. He had to run the last three blocks, just so he had enough time to calm his pulse at the other end, cast a glamour to cover his scar, and adopt a facial expression that said _'I'm just a tired Muggle sod at the end of a long, unfulfilling work week_ '. His head was full of the new leads he was processing as he walked into the pub, but he forced himself to focus as he scanned the crowd. The acting didn't come naturally to him, and he had to try hard to become this person each week.

Ambroz Palacky had not been blessed with an abundance of his mother's genetics. He was a disturbing carbon copy of his father. In fact, he was quite ugly. His head appeared too small for his body, his features squished into quite a small portion of that too-small face, with black beady eyes and no discernable neck. It had made Harry jump every time he had seen him for the first year that he'd followed the man; he looked so much like Dolohov that Harry had to fight the urge to hex him on sight.

Now though, he was troublingly familiar with the appearance of the man, and it almost didn't bother him any longer. He'd been watching him for so long it was like he was a cousin. Harry knew every bakery that Ambroz preferred. He knew that once a month, Palacky went on a raging binge of Amsterdam's wilder side; drinking and drugs, the occasional prostitute. The rest of the time he kept up an irritatingly Muggle presence, with a whole host of extremely brash and vulgar friends to match his less than sunny personality. Through the week he worked at a busy office complex as a security guard on the front desk. Harry supposed that he looked the part, if nothing else. At weekends he went home to a cat he was disturbingly attached to, mates who he brought round to watch the rugby, and a string of terrifying girls who never seemed to stay around long.

From the outside, he looked like your typical middle-income, lager-by-the-pitcher, swearing-too-loudly bloke. What Ambroz had accomplished by obtaining this boring life was nothing short of miraculous, though. He was still a Pureblood who had been raised by Purebloods. He didn't play the part. Knowing what he knew now, the fact seemed less miraculous. Harry himself had grown up with a family that didn't want him, and he too had fled the second he was able. He got it, but it didn't make him like Ambroz anymore; he was everything he hated in men. Misogynistic. Loud. Rude to everyone. He was Dolohov in everything but magic.

The divergences he took to contact the magical community were what had alerted the ministry to his whereabouts in the first place, but Harry was pretty sure that Palacky was too dense to have realised that he'd triggered suspicion. It had started out innocently enough. He'd gone to a wizarding club sometime just after the first set of trials and had asked too many pointed questions of the establishment's owner, who had owled the Wizengamot. When the first set of agents had been assigned to the case, he'd been one of them. A fresh face, newly dyed hair, not fully sure what he was doing other than that he was running away from the things he had planned to do in the 'Before the War' portion of his brain. They'd interviewed a bunch of people, but that had been about it.

Six months later, out of another batch of trials, and exhausted, Harry had been eager to jump into a proper assignment. He was shocked when he'd been introduced to Dent, and had it explained to him that he was going undercover on long-term assignment to try and flush out a ring of dark magic sympathizers in Amsterdam. He'd been allowed contact with England at first, under a deep cover story that placed him in Germany, with no real details about what he was doing. Harry hadn't really bothered telling anybody anything, since none of it was true anyway. Ginny tried to stay in touch the longest, but eventually, the hurt from his year on the run combined with the hurt of his running away again, and she turned away from him. He couldn't even summon the energy to feel betrayed when she turned instead to Neville a year later. After the 'soft move', Dent's annoyingly non-descript term for deep cover, no-contact at all, he'd been unable to contact her at all. Or anyone, actually.

Harry was so tantalizingly close now to the end. As a result, all the hurt and the anger had completely disappeared. He was almost finished, and even with the new information from Mrs. Malfoy, he'd be out soon. Six more months, at the worst, and most of that would be summer.

He walked purposefully towards the bar, allowing the reality that he was almost free to wash over him.

"Broshzik! Mate!" he said, fully in Jamie's personality and using the anglicized diminutive Ambroz preferred in public. The man startled slightly, but his face broke into a wide grin upon turning away from the bar.

"Jamie!" he yelled, his heavily accented voice contradictory to how much time he'd spent out of Poland. "Where have you been, my friend? It feels like ages since we saw you last."

"Ah, you know… life, work," Harry replied, waving a hand and scowling in a very real way.

"I hope it is nothing dramatic?"

"Nothing a pint can't fix," he said wearily, sitting down at the empty seat beside Ambroz.

"Of course!" Ambroz said jovially, too loudly, as usual. "My mates all drink for free!"

He grinned, clapped him on the shoulder, and poured Harry Potter a beer from his ubiquitous pitcher.


	6. Chapter 6

"You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you."  
― Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

Harry Potter was distinctly distracted. For an investigator in any sense of the word, that was never a good thing. For one who was supposed to be focused on keeping his anonymity, it was utterly disastrous. There was a chance, too, that there were other factors in play, but Draco hardly cared to examine it too closely. He knew now that his carefully constructed life was in the balance, and it was, as usual, because of the bloody Gryffindor.

While Harry traipsed around Amsterdam, having drinks with possible Neo-Death Eaters and following him around, Draco had begun a counter investigation of his own. He didn't actually mean for it to _be_ an investigation, and unlike Harry, he had no idea what he was doing.

However, despite his mother's lack of faith Draco became aware that someone was following him quite quickly. The city was not like Zandevoot, where it made sense that he saw the same people all the time, even if he did not know them. It was large and constructed of too many paths. He lived in an area of transience, and he knew when something was out of place. Mostly, because he paid far more attention than normal people to his surroundings.

He noticed after approximately four days. The sandy haired man was careful to not stay on the same bench, but Draco was constantly wary of everyone around him and he noticed _because_ of the bench switches. As soon as he knew, he began taking strange paths to the hospital, and only grocery shopping at the one shop down the road from him. He left by the floo he had connected to go back to the workshop rather than Apparating from the street. When he went for his coffee at the café he was careful not to go at regular intervals. He doesn't know why he is being watched, but it feels very much like his past and it hurts.

It goes on for a few weeks. Draco starts paying more attention, concerned that perhaps there are more of them. After all, the sandy haired man is not always present, meaning that if he is under surveillance, there must be another member of the team taking shifts. But he can spot no one else. He doesn't know if this is intentional. He wouldn't put it past the ministry to choose one spy to be obvious and one to be discrete to try and catch him out.

This, however, was what was making him angry. There was nothing to catch him doing. He had been complying with ministry regulation for the entire six years he had spent abroad; he submitted address changes, underwent yearly wand testing, and went back to England for 24 hours every two years to be questioned by Aurors. They knew where his mother was, and his workshop was properly registered. He didn't know what the Wizengamot thought it had on him, but they were entirely wrong.

So he did something risky, and something very, very Gryffindor. He started following back.

Now it is actually very difficult to watch a watcher, but Draco Malfoy was nothing if not patient. He waited out the Sandy Haired Man, who had to eat and sleep and do other things at some point. Finally, the man would get up from his bench outside Draco's flat and begin to walk away. Draco would then hurry after him into the street.

The man was never in a rush, although some days he had a bright orange bicycle with him and quickly lost Draco on the crowded cycle lanes. It didn't matter though, because the days that he didn't Malfoy actually got quite close to him and watched as he waffled between two places; a dismal looking flat building, and a beautiful old brick building on the canal. The places were at odds with each other. Just once, Draco caught the man as he went to a park by the flat and disappeared, clearly having Disapparated somewhere.

It was driving him mental, the feeling that he knew the man. There was just something about his gait, his face, his glasses.

Draco wasn't actually following the Sandy Haired Man when everything clicked into place. He'd just stepped out of the shower and his mind was on the fact that he was going to have to go back to the workshop that afternoon to fetch some ingredients. The distraction allowed the little details he had been collecting to slot themselves into place, and the truth trickled through like a cold, wet, extremely unwelcome surprise.

" _Fuck_ ," he said out loud, talking to himself in the mirror. "It's _Potter_."

He stared at his own reflection. Having no one else around to receive his disbelief and anger, he shouted at his own face, "Is it fucking Potter? It is, isn't it."

He studied the face that looked back at him. He looked tired, drawn. He looked older, and it was confusing. He hated this short hair, but the clean cut look made him look more respectable in the Dutch countryside.

Momentarily, he allowed his gaze to fall to the mark, faded now to the point of being mistakable for a scar if you didn't look too closely. He hated it no less than he ever had, but the fading had increased over the past year, and he was grateful. He could almost wander around in shirtsleeves without anyone remarking. Almost.

"It makes sense, doesn't it?" he said to himself one last time as he pushed off the bathroom sink. "It makes sense that it would be _Potter_ that would complicate my life. Again."

Ignoring all his previous plans he stalked out into the bright springtime sun with the intention of confirming his suspicions. At first, he was calm and purposed, but the quiet did not last. He quickly found the man at the posh brick studio, realising with a start that he suddenly knew the schedule of his shadow.

When he saw the Sandy Haired Man that day he felt a rage he had not felt in years resurface. When the man came outside to drink a coffee on the patio midway through the morning, Draco began to pace in an attempt to dispel his fury. Every movement confirmed his suspicion; the Sandy Haired Man was none other than Harry Potter. Now that he had realised it, there was no mistake; the disguise he wore was obviously only orchestrated to fool strangers. It hadn't accounted for former class enemies who knew far too many Potter traits to be fooled by dye and frames. Every action, every tilt of his head as he poured over a his work with a chalking pen in hand made Draco feel like there was both ice and fire in his veins.

Finally, as the man got up to go back inside, Draco decided he had seen enough. How dare Potter live a confusing and perfectly boring life in _his_ escape country, _his_ second chance home? How dare he then start following Draco for no obvious reason? How dare Potter, of all people, succeed in making him feel paranoid and hounded again, upsetting his peaceful, dull existence?

He waited, with a patience that was deeply seeded in his nature. When he reappeared a quarter of an hour later, Draco Malfoy followed Harry Potter all the way home.

As they both reached the bleak grey building where he knew the man lived, a plan formed in Draco's mind; it wasn't a _good_ plan, not rational or wise, but such was the nature of his connection to Potter. The idiot had always made him act brashly and without reasoned thought. It was hellishly irritating but Draco couldn't seem to help it, even now.

He followed Potter up six flights of stairs at a great distance and more silent than he had ever been in his life. His wand was already in hand as they rounded the last landing. But for all his obviousness in his stalking, Potter clearly had not lost his instinct or speed. At the top of the stairs he rounded on Draco.

_"Stupefy!"_

_"Expelliarmus!"_

The spells bounced harmlessly into each other, but Draco had already sent a silent second spell ahead, knowing that Potter would attempt to disarm him first. The unspoken _Incarcerous_ dragged Potter's hands behind his back and his wand fell harmlessly to the floor. Fear poured into the man's features, and a sick, twisted bubble in the core of Draco's stomach felt a tiny spark of glee.

"Well, well," he said, sneering as much as he was capable of these days. "The Chosen One, taken down with a rope. What _will_ the papers say?"

"Malfoy, release me," Potter said, seeming simply tired and not all that angry. "I'm law enforcement; you'll end up in Azkaban."

"Sort of hard to arrest me if you are dead, no?" Draco drawled. The tiny shimmer of fear on Potter's face increased tenfold, and Draco sighed. "Oh relax, would you. I'm obviously not going to kill anyone. Never have. Don't plan on changing that now."

Draco stared Potter down, looking at him hard, trying to force his words to sink in. Potter had the decency to look away, shamefaced.

"Now, I will release you just as soon as you tell me _why_ you are following me."

"I… I don't know-"

"Oh please," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "That seems highly unlikely. You say you are law enforcement, so what is it I am supposed to have done this time? Hmm?"

Potter just stared at a spot over Draco's left shoulder, face set in a hard line, clearly determined not to give anything away. Which of course, just fueled Draco forward. Uncomfortably aware of the fact that he might look like a villain in a Muggle film, he began pacing back and forth in the small space, his wand still directed at Potter's head.

"You see," he began. "Here's what I don't understand. I have, for the past six years, been a fine upstanding citizen of my little town. I pay taxes, I put up lost cat posters at my shop. I give to charity dances. I sell fine quality potions for a fair price. I comply with the Ministry's ridiculous rules for my continued release, reporting when necessary, having my wand checked. They have me distinctly under their thumb."

Here he paused, looking once again at Potter directly, satisfied that he looked uncomfortable.

"Why, exactly, would they not just _ask me_ if they had something they needed to say? Hmm?"

Potter was still looking anywhere but at Draco, but he had started to shift anxiously in his binding. And Draco knew he was on the right track. Despite his own assertions over the years, Potter wasn't actually an idiot; hot-tempered, unobservant, a little selfish, to be sure. But not an idiot. He clearly knew what Draco was getting at.

"I have a theory, Potter. Want to hear it? Course you do," Draco grinned as the squirming became more pronounced. "I think you are not actually _supposed_ to be following me."

Potter's face snapped back to his own.

"Am I close? I think perhaps, you didn't know until recently that I was here," he continued. "That makes sense. I've gone to great pains to ensure that was the case."

Draco stepped closer to Potter, his anger springing back to the surface.

"All I am doing in the city is taking care of my _family_. You, at the very least, should understand that! YOU who always claims to have been trying to take care of everyone else," he yelled, just inches from the idiot's face.

Potter had the audacity to glare at him, which just spurred Draco on.

"My mother is my only priority here, Potter. Do you know about her too? Did you even consider your impact on other people before you decided to interfere with someone else's life, yet again? I am telling you, right now, to _leave me the fuck alone._ "

Harry went to open his mouth, but suddenly, Draco was determined not to have him speak.

"No, shut up. My mother is very ill. She's been in the hospital here for six years, and Merlin help me, is not getting any better. I wouldn't even be in the city if I weren't just trying to- Fuck."

He sighed, tightening his grip on his wand again, trying to take comfort in the familiar weight.

"You are just the most frustrating human," he said finally. "Here, I've gone and lost my temper again. I don't even remember the last time that happened. The point, Potter, is that you need to stop. My mother's health is…"

Draco fell silent. He didn't know why he was even talking about his mother, and he had no idea how to finish the sentence.

"She's faking," Potter finally spat out before Draco could stop him again. He seemed to be trying not to shout it, to make his appearance sympathetic and non-threatening. But Draco saw through his facade. Potter was scared. Which was not helped when he suddenly had a wand up against his neck.

"What?" Malfoy said, whispering rather than shouting. "How fucking dare you, Potter! My mother has endured-"

"A lot. And she _was_ unwell, for a long time. But now she's faking it. She knows that if she is better you will take her away from the city and hide yourself away again, and she will lose all her new connections here in the city. So she's been faking it. For about six months."

Draco sputtered and took a step back against his will. He was confused, and very angry, and yet… there was something in the way Potter stood, calmly saying things, that gave him pause.

"I don't - You are a bizarre liar, just as you always have been. I don't understand what purpose making up a story like this serves."

"Exactly, which is why you know I'm telling you the truth."

Draco squinted murderously, "How, pray tell, did you come by this information?"

"She told me. We have tea."

"You-"

"Yes. Every week. Which is also how I also know that you can't really afford to have her faking it. The hospital is expensive."

"Tea?"

Draco took a deep breath, scrubbed his hair with his free hand. The calm tone was now starting to unsettle him. He had never really had a conversation with Potter that hadn't included yelling and insults.

"Not- uh, that's not untrue, but hardly your concern, Potter. Besides, she needs to be there."

"She doesn't, though. Not really. But… anyway. Doesn't matter. I'm paying for it now."

Draco's jaw went slack against his will as the words filtered through his anger, his tension. He remembered he was holding his wand, and that he had Potter cornered. He forced himself to remain calm and contained.

"What?" Draco said quietly.

He felt his tone shift into the one that he had inherited from Lucius; it was made of ice and steel, sharp and slightly frightening, even to his own ears.

Potter, though, had never been one to cower in Draco's presence. He thought idly that if he had managed to be a bit more like Potter when he was 15, he'd have gotten himself away from Lucius much sooner. Cold, angry green eyes stared back at him and said nothing, not flinching, not backing down.

"Explain yourself."

"I just did. I'm paying for it. It's nothing, Malfoy. I have… access to funds. The Ministry should have given her as much time as she needed anyway. I'm just… correcting a wrong."

"Oh, how _noble_. Save it, Potter. I know my mother. So spill; what is she doing for you in exchange?"

Potter just glared at him, clearly unrelenting. It didn't matter. He would go and ask his mother.

Suddenly, though, the anger rushed out of him. Let Potter follow him if he wanted to. Let him ingratiate himself into his mother's life; frankly, if the fact that he no longer had to come up with the money for the hospital was true, he could return to Zandevoot, and Potter would have no way of interfering with him directly ever again. He dropped the spell that had been holding Potter against the wall. He lowered his wand. And, even though he knew it was quite stupid, he felt himself turn around, his back to his former nemesis. Shocking them both, Harry did not raise his wand against him. Draco began a slow descent back down the stairs, feeling tired and confused, and hurt that his mother had been lying to him.

He made it three steps.

"Do you ever get lonely?" Potter stammered quietly at his retreating form.

His short clipped words sounded like they had been stopped many times in his mind before they had escaped his mouth, completely against his will. Draco could almost _hear_ the blush in his voice.

Draco paused on the stairs, frozen in place by the odd vulnerability. He couldn't force himself to turn around, and he did not respond. Instead, he simply inclined his head in the direction of Potter's voice.

"Just... do you? I've noticed, you don't… I don't… I mean that, I don't, um, see many people either?"

Draco didn't move. He couldn't quantify the words with what he knew of Potter, who was apparently not done talking.

"I thought maybe you'd want company sometimes?" Potter stammered, seeming confused by his own words. "Maybe just someone to... drink beside? I could. We could… Christ, what am I saying… It doesn't have to be friendship. We don't even have to talk. Or I can tell you what I've been doing. You can decide. Bugger."

Potter fell silent, clearly angry at himself for the unintentionally beseeching tone.

Draco almost felt sorry for Potter; he knew what it was to feel defenceless and exposed, even with your wand in hand. The imploring tone Potter had used was one that Draco, on any other day, would have used as ammunition against him as soon as was possible.

But today, his boundaries had been reset, his whole reality twisted. So he didn't retort, not right away.

For a long moment, Draco did a very Malfoy thing, a habit he thought he had long ago broken. He catalogued and strategized. He considered all the options, and he didn't care that in doing so, he had created a very awkward pause.

On the one hand, this was Potter, the bane of his existence. He thought about all those times in school where Potter had been witness to his embarrassment, to his pain, to the long torment of other teenagers. He thought about the times that Potter's fame had led him to make stupid choices, and forced Draco to take refuge in gloating and bullying just to survive. He thought about all the times when Potter had just stood idly by and watched him suffer.

But, on the other hand, he thought about living in his dismal flat. He thought about the nights in and the bad telly and the weird, lukewarm fish and chips he would bring home. He thought about his random coffee adventures, sometimes the most human interaction he'd had in days, when he would laugh and flirt clumsily in Dutch with the barista, male or female, just for the opportunity to see someone smile at him without reservation, without flitting eyes to where is marred skin lay beneath a constant long sleeve- because even when he was amongst Muggles, the tattoo ugly and vaguely gang-like. It made people uneasy. He thought about the one or two pints at a bar he allowed himself each month, always drunk too quickly out of sheer discomfort, fleeing the second he was done, not even being able to feign interest in whatever sporting match was on.

And, as is normal in the face of humanity and real emotion, the current pain just barely edged over the past slights. Humans are not meant to exist on their own; Draco had read once that it took less than 24 hours in solitary confinement to permanently alter the chemistry of a person's brain. He figured they could not possibly be right, since by now, Draco should be a madman.

This deep and aching pain and the infinitesimal fear that accompanied it is what made him turn his head to Potter, standing in his doorway still, waiting patiently as though he realized what he was asking Draco to admit and was willing to give him time to process. The fear and the pain together made him lift his head, ever so slightly, in what may be interpreted as a nod were the recipient looking for it closely.

Potter, in his peripheral vision, started slightly before taking two awkward, ugly and loping steps towards Draco. Apparently he had been looking for the nod.

And now, Draco Malfoy was on his way to have a drink with Harry Potter.


	7. Chapter 7

Which is how, nearly six years to the day after the end of the war, Draco Malfoy went for a drink with Harry Potter. The two boys, who had been on different sides, had ended up as men sitting across a table from each other in a tense and confusing truce. One that neither had ever planned, or wished for, or intended.

Truthfully, that first drink at the pub up the road had been entirely awful, which was unsurprising to both men. Malfoy spent the entire time sitting with his arms folded over his chest, glaring at Potter and refusing to speak.

Harry bought them both a pint, but Malfoy didn't actually touch his. He just stared straight ahead as Harry tried to diffuse the situation that he was in for no apparent reason. Why, exactly, Malfoy had let Harry talk him into a drink was beyond him. He suspected, though, that it had far more to do with explaining Narcissa than it did with burying the hatchet, so Harry decided to just talk.

"First of all, it would make everything less dangerous for both of us if you call me Jamie. I'm not going to explain why, and I can't make you if you refuse. But it would help keep your mother safer too. The hospital has that name."

Harry waited for any indication that Malfoy had heard him; when he got nothing but an increased glare, he moved on.

"I guess I actually sort of owe you an apology," he started again quietly. "The fact that we are both in the city is a coincidence."

Icy glare, silent, crossed arm. Harry sighed.

"I didn't… I shouldn't have been following you. I'm sorry," he said, looking at the table, and trying to feel as contrite as he looked.

"I found your mother completely by accident too, but _she_ is the reason we kept speaking. I didn't really get a say," Harry grinned, still trying to diffuse the anger he was getting back from the stone wall of silence across from him. He thought maybe shared experience with the persuasive powers of Narcissa Malfoy would help.

It did not.

"Erm, anyway," Harry tried again. "I live here. I assume you actually worked that out, though, considering you just attacked me in my own flat."

"I did not- how dare you!" Malfoy finally hissed.

Against his better judgement, Harry felt victorious. Surely forcing Malfoy into active anger was better than passive fury. He was terrified that if he let the man leave before they reached some sort of agreement, his entire case was going to be jeopardized. He could of course control that too, but he didn't relish the conversation with Dent. Or the paperwork.

"You said you were law enforcement," Malfoy said shortly.

"Um. Yes," Harry was embarrassed. His fingers worried themselves on the table top, rather against his will. He tried to bring himself back in control. "Shouldn't have really said that much, honestly, but since I did. Yes. With the Ministry. It's a long story. I've been here about five and half years."

"Is my mother in danger?"

Harry sighed, "Absolutely not. I'm pretty sure your mother was never in actual danger. That woman is a force to be reckoned with."

This actually did make Draco look slightly less angry. Not happy, per se, but less murderous for a moment.

"Why have you been talking to her?" Malfoy said, still not actually conversing so much as interrogating.

"I can't say."

"Pott-" Malfoy paused and sighed. "Sorry, what did you say I was to call you?"

"Jamie. Evander."

"Seriously?" Malfoy said, quirking an eyebrow that almost made Harry laugh. It had been a long time since he'd been on the receiving end of that particular facial expression. He could almost feel the dankness of the dungeon, smell the mingled smells of brewing potions, could almost hear Snape's breathing over his shoulder. The eyebrow dragged him back to Hogwarts. It looked out of place on the older face before him.

"I didn't choose it," he said by way of a response.

"Well, that's a relief," Malfoy quipped, clearly uncaring. "Right, fine. Jamie, then. You've stopped the surveillance on me. Why?"

"You are very boring," Harry said, sending his own eyebrow up and almost, _almost_ , making Malfoy smirk back.

"Well, at least your very keen sense of observation remains intact. Fine," Malfoy said, dropping his arms. "I'll stop following you too. I'm also going to go ahead and pretend that I don't know you are… conversing with my mother. And right now, I'm leaving."

Harry was unsurprised, and he took a calm sip of his pint.

"Fine. I'll be here next week, too," Harry said, confused again as to why he was trying to befriend Malfoy. "Just in case you needed to know that."

Malfoy just glared at him, and took a huge swig of the pint in front of him before standing up and turning to leave.

"Malfoy," Harry said calmly, quietly. "I meant what I said. You aren't in trouble. I'll leave you be. I'm not going to hurt you."

Malfoy faced him once more, and something subtle and fleeting took over his previously guarded features. He ran a hand through his hair, stopping short as though remembering that it was so short right now that it didn't really need this treatment. His arms dropped back to his sides, looking defeated, and he looked through Harry rather than at him.

"I've heard that before, Potter," he finally said, before turning on his very expensive looking shoe and leaving the pub without a backward glance.

.~*~.

When Draco got back to his flat, having Apparated from the street, he kicked the table and smashed a lamp. He threw a mug across the room, and watched it shatter against the wall. He waited for the 'smashing stuff' thing to work like it usually did, waited for it make him feel less angry, less hurt, less confused. When it didn't work, he stormed his way back out of his flat and Apparated once more. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his mother's voice said ' _don't Apparate angry, dear. You'll splinch yourself.'_

He grimaced as he landed, and stalked into the hospital lobby.

"Draco, dear? Are we expecting you today?" Louisa said, looking immediately concerned.

The hospital seemed too bright today, and Draco wasn't sure any more that he should be here. He'd Apparated to try and keep his anger fresh, and on the surface. But he hadn't been fast enough.

"Louisa," he said shortly, not bothering to try and mask his bizarre tone. "Can you call my mother? I want to surprise her with an early dinner in the square."

She looked at him sidelong, but picked up the receiver. A few moments later, his mother came out with a lightweight scarf on her shoulders and a daft smile that she immediately dropped when she saw Draco standing by the counter, limbs tightly coiled, chin high in the air.

"Draco," she said carefully, kissing his cheek. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Mother. Dinner?"

"Of course, darling," she replied. Narcissa's answer was for the benefit of Louisa alone. She already knew something was up.

He took her arm in his own and walked her gently out the door. He kept hold of it the whole two blocks of the walk into _Noodermarkt_ and didn't speak.

"So," Narcissa said finally when they were in the midst of the crowded square. "I am assuming you have made some connections. Correct, Draco?"

He turned to face her and exhaled sharply.

"You are having tea with HARRY POTTER, Mother?!" Draco all but screamed.

"Really, Draco. Lower your voice," Narcissa said calmly, managing to look at him like she was chastising a four-year-old.

"Lower my- Mother, you have been lying to me!"

"Draco," she hissed. "If you insist on screaming like a child, please do something about the Muggle audience."

"Oh for the love of- " he hissed, but he pulled out his wand carefully and cast a subtle Muffliato around them. "There. Happy?!"

"Well, Harry has taken great pains to remain unnoticed, so it only seems- "

"HARRY!? You are calling him _Harry_?"

"Of course I am. How silly would it be to call a child your age by his surname? Especially when we owe him so much."

"Harry POTTER. Mother. And he's saying the most outrageous things!"

"Oh? You talked to him, did you? I'm a bit surprised by that one, darling. You've always been so ridiculous about him," Narcissa had started wandering again, and she picked up a small framed picture of a canal boat.

"I'm what? Sorry? Did you just tell me that I am ridiculous about… I can't believe you would-"

"Finish your thoughts, dear," she said gently, putting the picture back. "What has he been telling you, then? To make you show up here in such a strop all of a sudden."

"I am not in a strop," Draco hissed, proving her right with his childish tone. "I am just..."

He took a deep breath before trying again, "He says he's paying for your treatment."

"He shouldn't have," Narcissa replied, still calm and unperturbed. "But no mind. That is true. Or, at least, the Ministry is paying. I would've thought you'd be happy about that, since you always said they should have paid."

Draco simply nodded. He had been complaining about that for six years. It was pointless to argue.

"He also suggested," Draco said carefully. "That you may be finished with said treatment."

Narcissa fixed him with the Black family stare, the one that had been collapsing his lungs and stomping on his defiance for 23 years.

"Why on earth," she said coolly. "Would I still be in the hospital if I were finished my treatment?"

They stared at each other for a long moment, each trying to make the other back down. Finally, Draco looked away.

"Of course, Mother," Draco said with contrition. "I didn't mean to suggest- "

"Honestly, Draco Abraxas. You've been taught to speak with more care."

"I'm sorry."

They walked to the end of the market in silence, heat pooling in Draco's cheeks. He knew that tone; his mother had just confirmed the second part of Potter's claim, but they were absolutely _not_ going to talk about it. Which was frustrating.

Although, if he thought about it objectively, did it really matter if his mother wanted to stay where she was comfortable, just a little longer? It wasn't as if he was going to go back to England. Sure, he had envisioned going to France, living more comfortably in the family estate, but that had been years ago. The Netherlands were home now. He resigned himself to continued city visits, and took his mother's arm, a silent conceding.

She smiled at him- gratefully, he thought.

"So," she said. "Are you seeing him again?"

"What? No."

"You should. You need more friends, and he's lovely."

"Mother," Draco said patiently. "Harry Potter and I are _not_ going to be friends."

"Ah," she replied. "But he is not 'Harry Potter', darling. He is _Jamie_ , and he's lovely."

She beamed at him in a megawatt smile, one he had not seen in years. He tried to smile back, despite his utter disagreement.

Finally, she let the smile fall and faced him earnestly, "Draco. Stop wearing past slights like armour. That was your father's trick. If you recall, it did him no favours."

Draco sighed. He didn't argue any longer as they walked back in the dusk. It didn't matter that he meant what he'd said; he had no intention of seeing Potter ever again. He just stopped trying to explain to his mother why.

There had never really been any point in arguing with Narcissa Malfoy.


	8. Chapter 8

On Friday Harry got home in the early evening, having walked the long way home, enjoying the revelling crowds for a little bit. As much as he was trying to pretend he wasn't, he was still a bit off kilter from his time in the pub. He was annoyed with himself, and a little embarrassed. Since when had it been okay for him to give away so much of himself to the Malfoy family? He was rather looking forward to burying himself in his bed and not moving again until very late the next day, and his feet were moving forward without much thought or attention.

Unfortunately, the second he opened his door, he discovered a very tiny owl tapping at his equally tiny kitchen window. He hoped the owl hadn't been there long; birds sitting on window sills and rhythmically tapping weren't exactly common place in this neighbourhood, and his neighbours were already pretty convinced he was weird.

Harry was instantly on guard. As far as he was aware, no wizards knew he lived here except for Dent, and now Malfoy, he supposed. Which was unnerving. He'd have to consider moving.

He let the bird in, and it immediately dropped a tightly folded piece of paper from its talons. Hooting in indignation, it left again, not waiting for a reply, or even for Harry to find it some sort of treat. Shaking his head and unfolding the note, he grew immediately restless and started pacing the kitchen as he read the short letter;

_Jamie,_

_I hear you met with my son; it is a comfort to me to know you are both still alive after the encounter. He may have also told me where you live. Which is helpful, since I have relevant and time-sensitive information for you about a meeting of your… clients._

_I have reason to believe that you should find yourself at the 'Malted Duck Tavern', sometime after 8 tonight. I can't give you more than that._

_I apologise if my son made you uncomfortable. He doesn't mean to be so angry all the time. It isn't often people give him a chance, so trust does not come easily. I don't know why you did, but I appreciate it nevertheless._

_Respectfully,_  
_N.M._

Harry skimmed through the letter once more and felt a deeply unsettled feeling wash over him. It wasn't the information; he knew of The Malted Duck, the grungy tavern in the East end that Palacky enjoyed. He'd been there with him before. He knew he would quickly be able to sort out why he was meeting there tonight.

What was bothering him was that Narcissa had immediately taken his side in the whole 'asking Fucking Malfoy for a drink' debacle. And also, that Malfoy had immediately gone to tell his mother. And that meant that all three of them were now on the same page, all in agreement about a secret kept from the Ministry. That was definitely not normal. Malfoys as accomplices were decidedly more disturbing than the prospect of an evening spent with dark magic sympathizers.

Still, Harry changed his shirt and headed back into the night.

The Malted Duck was a very strange place. It had once been disgustingly seedy in an entirely stereotypical way; it was dark and old, with an odd smell and sticky carpeting that may have once been burgundy but now resembled melted fake chocolate and was bare in most places. There were still ashtrays on the tables that weren't used any longer, and dubious mints in the bathroom that never seemed to disappear. It had, at one time, been the perfect place for the side of society that required a bar where your face was partially obscured at all times.

But times change. Lately, The Malted Duck had started to attract another sort of crowd. The type that knew good food for cheap was a secret you kept hidden. They were the kind that wore scarves and beanies ironically and wore glasses that they may or may not have needed. They appeared from out of the slowly changing neighbourhood around the East end and were difficult to shift. They would show up in small clusters and drink microbrew ale while discussing post-modern realism.

Strangely, the new crowd had not fully displaced the old crowd yet, and now, they just existed in a very uncomfortable truce, resolutely ignoring each other and not mingling.

This Thursday night crowd was a thriving example, with a group of students sitting at the bar with books all around them, and a group of older men who had probably been quite dangerous in their 20s, but who were now a little too rotund and grey to be much of a threat. It might have been comical, but Harry had tunnel vision and barely noticed.

There, in the corner, was his target. Ambroz's large, donkey-like laugh signalled him before he even reached the table, and the four other people sitting with Palacky looked at him with a mix of grimaces and indulgent humour. Harry took a deep breath and walked over with a confidence he did not feel.

"Palacky! You bastard," Harry bellowed. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Jamie," Palacky stood up, extending a hand and pulling Harry into a universal dude embrace. "What the hell are you doing here, mate?"

"I was supposed to be meeting my girl, but she's stood me up."

"Ah, Jamie, rotten. Whatever, mate. Let her go," Ambroz said, slapping his shoulder. "Get under another, I always say. Isn't that right, Pieter?"

A wide-mouthed, fish-eyed blond man nodded and smirked.

"Jamie, you remember Pieter, and Ignautus. That is Adam to his left. And of course, our good friend Ernst."

Harry nodded at them all in turn, casting a surreptitious lingering look at Ernst Galloway. The man was probably approaching seventy, and had the look about him that Harry had started to find synonymous with wand makers; he had long, neatly braided hair, held back with an old fashioned ribbon. He wore ridiculous half-moon spectacles. His modern clothes looked extremely out of place on his lean frame; he would have looked for more at ease in robes with a formal cravat and a waistcoat, and Harry could sense his discomfort about being surrounded by Muggles. He wondered for the first time ever if all of Ambroz's associates were also squibs. How else did they convince a man like Galloway to sit with them? Did Galloway know how to keep the magical world out of conversation, like a Muggleborn, or was he clumsy and confusing like Arthur?

"Can I buy you blokes a round? Looks like you're almost dry," Harry said, gesturing expansively and smiling broadly.

There was much congenial cheer, and Harry begrudgingly went to the bar and brought back cheap, weak beer. They wouldn't notice the difference, and he hardly needed to spend more money on Ambroz Palacky this month.

"So," Harry said, setting down the pitchers, "What was so funny when I turned up, hmm? Was someone finally explaining to Ambroz that his impression of a lobster is not funny."

The table erupted in laughter.

"Ernst here is a much more important man than the rest of us, Jamie," Palacky said, ignoring both the laughter and the question. "Has a right proper job and everything."

"Oh really?" he replied casually, wondering how on earth Galloway was planning on hiding that he was a freaking wand maker. "What is it you do?"

Eyes flitted around the table, and Galloway muttered something about 'investments', and no one would look at Harry for a full thirty seconds. He had definitely touched a nerve. Galloway was looking at Ambroz with murderous eyes.

In those thirty seconds, Harry-now-Jamie realised that he was going to have to move the situation in a dangerous direction. He had known for ages that he would get to this point, but facing it seemed even more terrifying than he'd anticipated; he hadn't accounted for being slightly wary of Galloway, and he was quite outnumbered. Still, he had a tactical plan for this, and he knew what he was going to do. He took a deep breath, made sure that he had at least the attention of some of those at the table, and reached forward for the pitcher of beer.

And sent a gentle Accio at it.

The pitcher moved calmly the few inches into his outstretched palm, and Harry exhaled a breath that he hadn't meant to hold. He thanked whoever was in charge of the universe that his weak and unpredictable wandless magic had held when he needed it. He pasted a look of abject horror on his face and stared right at Palacky, who was watching him with interest. Harry knew his plan had worked before anyone even spoke.

"How long have you known Ambroz, Jamie?" Galloway said mildly.

"Oh," Harry replied carefully, "It has to be what, Broshzik, almost three years?"

"Yes, three years," Ambroz said, still looking at the pitcher, and thinking so hard that it was almost comical.

"A long time, in this city," Galloway nodded. "What do you know of Ambroz's history, then, Jamie?"

"What do you-"

"He's asking if you know about my family," Palacky said, his voice dropping lower. "If you know about….other things."

"I..." Harry said just as quietly. He paused as though he was thinking too. "There might be rumours about some, er, stranger things. And it's possible I have heard them. Because I have a similar family…history."

Ambroz nodded at him, and Galloway sat back.

"Do you trust him, Broshzik?" one of the others at the table said. Harry kept his face worried and his eyes on Ambroz

"Yes," Palacky said finally, barely whispering. "Yes, I do. Ernst, is there room for one more?"

"I suppose," Galloway said, glaring hard at Harry. "But not here. Not tonight. Jamie, this is my card. We meet on Wednesday next week. Eight sharp. Tell no one and come alone. It would be… unwise to ignore that instruction."

"Relax, Ernst. Jamie here is trustworthy. I know him well," Ambroz said, slapping Harry on the shoulder again. "We can trust him. Now, enough of this, with the whispers and secrecy. Let's drink!"

Jamie forced himself to stay sitting, carefully drinking his beer and laughing at the disgusting jokes being told, the stories of Ambroz's latest conquest. He sat for almost an hour before he couldn't take it any longer.

"Well, boys, 'fraid that's me done," he said, finishing the last sip of his pint and standing. "Been a long one. 'Night."

"We'll see you Wednesday, Jamie?" Ambroz said quietly.

He nodded, shaking Palacky's outstretched hand, "Eight sharp, right?"

Once in the street, he took a few deep breaths. It may have gone well, and things may have stayed calm and civil, but somehow, that was not comforting Harry at all. He was nervous, and he had no idea what he had just set into motion. Not to mention the fact that he now had to wait almost a week to find out.

He dipped into the alley behind the Duck and Apparated into Dent's office. It was late, but he knew that he would trip the wards and Dent would be there almost at once. The subsequent meeting was terse and succinct, and any feeling of fear or discomfort disappeared. Dent had faith in him, and therefore, he knew he could do whatever was needed to stay undercover.

By the time he got home, he had almost completely forgotten the drinks with Malfoy debacle. Until he closed his eyes, and saw only blond hair, crossed arms, and deadly glares.


	9. Chapter 9

The day after the drink incident with Potter was unfortunately a Wednesday. Unfortunate, because he had absolutely nothing to do on Wednesdays. Draco was all out of sorts, and he couldn't decide if it was because of his mother, or Potter, or both.

Or neither.

In reality, Draco was pretty sure that his intense disquiet had everything to do with his unsettled life. Potter had shaken him, not because he had done anything drastic, but because he had forced him to look at his very small existence far more critically than he'd ever planned. Not that Potter had done or said anything specific; he had thrown Draco off simply by being from his past, being perfectly civil, and being completely unhelpfully nothing like Draco had always imagined him to be. Not to mention being disturbingly fit, despite the bad hair.

Not that Draco was thinking about that, really.

The defence of Potter by his mother had not helped matters at all. He replayed his interactions with the ridiculously named 'Jamie' for the entire day, drinking way too much tea and eating too many pastries in the process. The thing that was bothering him most was that there had been no hostility there. No seemingly ornate plan of revenge. No malice, whatsoever. And since Harry Potter had never been very good at being covert, Draco was relatively sure that it was safe to assume there were no ulterior motives there. He had simply told Draco the truth.

And that pissed Draco off.

Worse than that, however, was that he now had to sort out a way to go and see Potter again, while simultaneously bringing things back to his terms. By the end of this day of contemplation he was utterly exhausted.

* * *

The week passed slowly and without any interesting moments to break up the waiting. Harry spent too much time drinking port at Leo's studio, much to the man's delight. He wasn't getting much sleep, though he couldn't exactly explain why. It could be that he was just nervous about having to throw himself headlong into a potentially harmful situation; it had been a while since he'd had to do that while under cover and without backup. He suspected that something else was bothering him, a little niggle behind his eyes that wouldn't go away. But since he didn't know precisely what was bothering him, and since he had enough real stress to bog him down, he ignored it.

On Friday, he settled into a chair across from Mrs. Malfoy, having begged her to let him stay inside, out of the bright sun and with fortifying tea. She looked at him with barely restrained motherly concern, and he felt a twinge of something warm and embarrassed squish inside his chest. It was strange, after all this time, to have someone worry over him again. He didn't entirely dislike it but felt immediately guilty for causing her pain.

"Whatever is the matter, dear boy?" she said, a crease forming beside her eyes that he had never seen before. "You look awful."

"It's nothing, Narcissa," he smiled wanly. "Just tired."

"I hope you are not worried about something specific?"

"The case...I can't really go into detail, but it's...advancing. It's good, but-"

"Yes, I understand. Well, let's not speak of it."

Harry winced. A change of subject was not going to go well for him, and Narcissa grinned at him knowingly.

"You anticipate correctly, Jamie," she laughed. "I would like ever so much to hear of your date with my son."

"Mrs. Malfoy!" he cried against his will. "It was not...we did not have a date. You could barely call what happened an interaction, let alone a date."

"He didn't seem too happy about it either," she replied with a smirk.

"Er, you saw him?" Harry said, mostly for something to say, since he knew she had from the letter.

"Well, yes," Narcissa replied, throwing up an eyebrow that left little doubt about Draco's parentage. "Someone elected to tell him that the direction of my treatment here had changed slightly. He was not pleased."

"I...Narcissa, I'm sorry,"," Harry said, having enough sense to blush and look down. "He was very angry. I had to tell him something."

"Oh don't worry," Narcissa waved a hand at him. "I would have told him eventually. And I know my son. He is incorrigible. I have no trouble believing he was an ass to you."

She laughed again at the look on his face, "Oh, don't look so shocked, Jamie. He can be an ass. I'm well aware of that. But he can be more than that too."

Unfortunately, Harry was tired, and he may have scoffed out loud.

"Yes, I know," Narcissa smirked, "But you'll see it too, as you get to know him."

"I doubt if I'll see him again. He's pretty...annoyed," Harry sighed.

"Yes, but the thing is, you _want_ to. I don't pretend to know why, but it's true. Now," she stopped his response with a hand. "Off with you. Go spend some time in the sun. Get some real food. Then to bed. Seriously, Jamie. You should take better care of yourself."

"I-"

"Don't argue with me, young man," Narcissa said, smirking slightly at her own tone and ruining the effect, but Harry smiled just the same.

"Aye aye," Harry joked.

He stood up, stretching tiredly.

"And thanks," he whispered. "For...you know, calling me Jamie. And everything."

She laughed, "Don't be silly. You don't owe me thanks."

He left feeling lighter and had really meant to take Narcissa's advice. Instead, he spent the next three and a half days in an utter strop. He was nervous and confused, and no amount of running around the city distracted him. Finally, he appeared in Dent's office a full fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, shocking Yvette and annoying Dent, who was in the middle of an onerously large stack of paperwork.

Harry shrugged at the rebuke he received and launched right into a well-rehearsed set of questions. Finally, they just sat looking at each other.

"So?" Harry pressed.

Dent just looked at him.

"How am I supposed to play this," Harry said to Dent, scrubbing his face in annoyance. The man was being taciturn and irritating.

"I'm not sure," Dent replied, putting down his quill. "You're positive they didn't hear you say the spell? "

"I _didn't_ say the spell," Harry reiterated. "Watch."

He stuck his hand out and summoned the recently discarded quill. He threw a face at his supervisor, who was looking at the quill in his hand with irritated awe.

"Oh relax, my wandless magic is shit," Harry said angrily. "I got lucky."

"Fine," Dent replied, matching Harry's own irritated tone. "So then I think you pretend you are like him. Like you are a squib, have never had a wand. "

"Seems very risky. What if he is suspicious."

"Do you think that likely? Suspicion, I mean?"

"Not from Ambroz, no," Harry considered. "But, the wand maker, he isn't quite so dumb. I don't trust him."

"It is wise not to," Dent nodded. "We still don't know what he knows. But still, I think it's the safest course of action."

"Fine."

They sat in silence again for a second while Harry tried to decide if it was okay for him to leave.

"How's the photography?" Dent threw out.

"Still none of your business," Harry snapped.

Dent held up his hands defensively. Harry sighed. He really was too tired.

"Go," Dent said. "Get some sleep before tomorrow. Do you need a potion?"

"No. I don't want to be drowsy."

"You look like shit."

"Yeah, thanks," Harry said acerbically. He really did not like this man.

Apparating home in a foul mood, and crawling into bed, Harry barely remembered falling asleep. He woke in the late evening and was starving. He didn't actually remember his promise from the week before to a certain blond. It was hunger alone that drove him down the stairs and into the pub.

Once he had ordered and sat at his usual table, he began scribbling a list of facts he had told Ambroz about Jamie over the past year. He was so engrossed in his memory exercise that he physically jumped when someone sat across from him, and he had to sneak his wand back up his sleeve subtly when he noted the blond hair and scowl. He tried to play it off as shaking his biro for more ink.

"Malfoy," he said coolly after a moment. "Surprised me. Didn't think you were actually coming."

When stony silence met him, Harry's current complete and utter lack of patience surfaced, and before he could stop himself, he had thrown down his pen and glared at Malfoy.

"Look," he snapped, "If your plan is to sit there and scowl at me, kindly sod off. I'm in no mood. What do you want?"

Malfoy seemed taken aback at the change in Harry's tone, and he immediately rankled.

"You still have my wand," Malfoy responded defiantly, unfolding his arms and placing his hands flat on the table.

Harry looked up, slightly shocked, as ancient history hit him square in the face and he had immediate flashbacks of a dreadful afternoon, a different set of people than the ones who sat here now, pain and fear. He shook his head and sighed.

"Didn't you get a new one?" he finally responded, as unemotionally as he could manage.

Draco bit his lip and ground his teeth. Still, he decided to stick to his original story. It had taken him three days to remember that Potter had his original wand. Wanting it back gave him a tangible and somewhat logical reason to be sitting here. Without that life raft, he had no reason to be sitting and drinking bad beer with Harry Potter except that he _wanted_ to, and wanted to know more about the man. And that was just not on.

"Obviously," he said, channelling Severus as much as possible, and failing as he couldn't resist the added, "Git."

Potter did not rise to his challenge, which disturbed Draco.

"Doesn't mean I'm going to let you keep the old one. Do you have it still or not?" Draco asked, pushing bravely on.

"I don't know," Potter gestured vaguely. "Probably somewhere. I'd have to look for it."

Harry was hardly going to admit to Malfoy that he knew exactly where the old hawthorn wand was. Because it was here, in Amsterdam with him, buried at the bottom of his old wardrobe. The wand was one of the approximately thirty possessions he'd brought with him in his old Hogwarts chest when he'd moved. At the time, when he'd tossed it carelessly in, he'd had no idea why. He still didn't, if he was honest.

"Fine. Do that," Malfoy said. "I'll come get it next week."

Apparently, Malfoy wasn't thinking critically, was not considering that Harry was hardly free to just run home to England to look for a twenty year old wand that no one had used in almost a decade. He didn't question Harry's lack of debate about looking for the wand.

Something about Malfoy's careful tone snuck past Harry's exhaustion and broke something inside him just a little bit. Was Malfoy actually nervous about what he'd say next?

"Three weeks of pints in a row, eh Malfoy?" He said against his better judgement, smirking at the other man. "Anyone would think you actually _want_ to hang out with me."

Malfoy practically growled in frustration, and something deep inside of Harry's soul sparked with interest at the sound. He frowned.

"Goodbye, Jamie," Malfoy said, tone dripping with ire, as he stood and walked out of the bar.

Harry felt the pool of heat in his stomach and frowned again.

"Well, that'll never do," he muttered to himself as he went back to his case notes.

That night, he fell asleep heavily and in a dreamless sleep, despite his anxious thoughts about the next day.

* * *

When he awoke, the city was bright and sparkling again, summer having finally latched onto the city with vehemence. Harry launched himself into the day, carrying his camera and trying to ignore the fact that the light was terrible. And that he wasn't really being distracted by the shutter. Not today.

Finally, after forcing himself to eat something, he just started pacing. He left his flat far too early and walked the entire way to the address printed on the tiny card he'd been handed.

The neighbourhood that Galloway took him to was vaguely unfamiliar, and it took him a solid ten minutes to realise that it was likely the Magic quarter of the city. Living as a near-Muggle as he did didn't require him to venture into this part of town, so he'd never looked for it. It looked much like every Magical city he'd ever been in, now that he was looking for it. Ramshackle shops that made no sense from the outside, ancient and dirty windows. The whole place looked rather uninviting. He assumed he was not inside the actual Magical marketplace, and he didn't stop to figure out where the entrance might be. Walking had taken longer than he'd anticipated, and he was very nearly late.

He rapped on the small green door of 15 Oudestraat (literally 'old street', which he found suspicious enough). He inhaled deeply to steady himself and got a faint whiff of polish and wood splintering. It smelt like a broom shop, or a carpenter. Or, he supposed, like a wand makers.

The door flung open suddenly, and Ambroz's wide grin appeared on the other side.

"Jamie," he said, weirdly subdued for him. "We've been waiting for you. Come in, come in."

Inside, the same ragtag bunch from the pub sat in a wide circle of uncomfortable looking chairs. They all turned to look at him, including Ernst Galloway, who looked hostile and foreboding in his robes. Although, the robes suited him far better than the Muggle suit, and Harry relaxed a little; perhaps he really was just an old and grumbling wizard, like so many others he'd met along the way.

"Jamie, welcome. Please," Ambroz said, gesturing to an empty seat, "Sit. We need to ask you a few questions."

Harry bristled slightly. He was prepared for as much as was possible, but if they decided to use Veritaserum, he wasn't sure what he could really do except arrest everyone and hope there was enough evidence to close the case. A last resort to say the least; after all, five years for the sake of petty criminal charges was hardly the trade-off he was hoping for.

Luckily, what happened over the next hour and a half was exactly what he had been prepared to hear. They asked him questions about his family, none that were unexpected, and he fed them well-rehearsed lies. About a poor wizarding family with few magical ties, and an over talented sister that was given every opportunity. The shunning of his weak magical abilities, the 'accidents' of his youth.

"Eventually," he finished feebly, "They just packed me off to a Muggle boarding school. I ran away shortly after."

"Didn't need them anyway," Ambroz said, voice thick with emotion as he patted Harry on the shoulder.

Harry felt a tiny grain of sympathy pass through his Jamie persona; it wasn't that he was a very good actor. These men had all been treated with hatred and anger by families they did not choose. He knew that life, after all. He understood their pain, even if he didn't love the people they had become.

"We are all magical, Jamie," Ambroz said when he had finished.

"And we are all here for similar reasons," Pieter, the wide-faced, simpering one, added. "Ambroz has an idea."

"Idea," Ambroz said grandly, "Is an understatement. I have a _revolution_ in mind. We shall make them all realise that they were fools for shutting us out."

The grand statement of punishment made him shudder internally. It was disturbingly familiar, that hate, that anger. But Ambroz wasn't anywhere near done.

What followed was the biggest load of crock Harry had ever heard.

Based on some half-baked research from a scholar Harry had never heard of, Palacky theorised that the problem with squibs was that they required different materials to channel their magic. The problem that they faced as children was a lack of nurturing, followed by the wrong conduit for their magic. They simply needed a different resource.

Galloway had stepped in at this point and explained, rather patiently for a man with such a deeply set scowl, that he had the next part of the plan in hand. He had been experimenting, discovering new cores for wands, using different materials than wood for the body. The concept of a wand, Harry learned, was simple; the shape was simply because it was the most concentrating shape. The core provided extra strength to magical ability, which was why things that had their own magical properties were normally used. Galloway, in this case, had simply started using different metals and composites.

"The next great wizarding invention," Galloway said with a sickening amount of pride. "It's a combination of silver and brass."

"And the core?" Harry asked, curious despite the utter nonsense of what he was hearing.

"A secret," Galloway grinned, tapping the side of his nose.

"So, Jamie," Ambroz said. "What do you think? Are you in?"

Jamie looked around at the eager faces encircling him, and felt a little sick at the glee he found there.

"Obviously," he replied. "Count me in."

"Excellent. I shall measure you tonight," Galloway said jovially.

He tried desperately to figure out where to put his existing wand, surreptitiously, before Galloway asked him to expose his arms or whatever else 'measuring' was going to entail.

Finally, he asked after a bathroom, shoved his wand in his sock, and returned to find that there was plotting afoot. Apparently, he was just in time for 'The Next Big Mission'. Whatever the fuck that meant. Based on the mean glee that he found in Ambroz's eyes, he was not looking forward to finding out.

By the end of the evening, Harry had heard no fewer than four colourful new terms for 'Magical people', knew more than he ever needed to about Pureblood shunning, and felt queasy about agreeing so heartily to participating in whatever these men had planned. He'd also been 'fit' for a wand from Galloway- which was going to cost him a hefty sum for 'cost of materials'- and been told that he had a 'very magical aura about him'.

There was no question left in his mind; something about these men was very, very dangerous.

* * *

Without knowing what Harry was going through in his professional life, Draco Malfoy spent the week mistakenly believing that Potter was going as mad as he was over the ridiculous request he had made. He kept playing their conversation over and over again in his mind, and he felt increasingly like a fool for even having gone to the pub, let alone asking for his wand back like they were both still fifteen. He didn't care about the bloody wand, for Merlin's sake. Why on Earth could he not just grow up and admit to himself that he would just like a friend in this fucking, god-forsaken place? Why did he have to go and make himself an idiot, as per bloody usual?

These thoughts dragged his emotional state even further out of whack as the week progressed, and finally, he decided on Sunday to go back to Zandvoort to do some much needed brewing. Once in his potion's lab, a calm descended onto him; mixing and measuring and timing and stirring left little room for other thought. He had to focus. And while he was unable to obsess over the interactions with Potter, his brain settled down. He wasn't going to let Potter rattle him anymore. He just wasn't.

After two days of this brewing quiet, and hand delivering some restocking potions to his most loyal customers, Draco felt much, much better.

So much better, in fact, that he decided to head back to Amsterdam and meet Potter for drinks again. Because really, nothing could go wrong. Not in his new state of mind, where he was going to be grown up and patient.

But, the third time Draco Malfoy turned up for drinks, Harry Potter was in a weird, contemplative mood. As the blond man chuffed and sat down across from him, he looked up.

He immediately said, "Malfoy, do you ever wonder about the war? About what would have happened if something had gone differently? Would Voldemort have won? Would he have taken over?"

In all his thinking, Draco had not anticipated a remorseful Potter; he wasn't aware that the emotion was a part of the man's arsenal. He was shocked, and a little off balance, but he was also a Malfoy, and so, graceful as ever, he thought for a moment, didn't scoff or frown.

Finally, he decided higher road was necessary. Potter seemed like he was in genuine distress.

"No, I never wonder," he said softly, forcing Potter to look at him with his quiet tone. "What good does that do anyone? Everyone did what they did, at the time, and it's over. We have to live with it. No one should have to replay all of that, over and over. Especially you…"

"I wonder, though," Potter said, eyes wide and unnervingly honest. "I do."

Draco didn't have anything to say to that, nothing that wouldn't lead to a giant fight. So instead, he cleared his throat and said, "Are you okay? You look like shit."

"Huh. Draco Malfoy asking after my health," Potter muttered instead of answering. "I'm sure someone, somewhere, owes me a sickle."

Draco didn't reply.

"I'm….well," Potter sighed, "Fine is probably overstating it a bit. Mostly I'm tired. The case has got me on weird hours. It's not a big deal."

"You shouldn't wonder you know," Malfoy said, calmly sipping the pint that Harry had placed in his spot in anticipation of his arrival.

Harry didn't respond. Miraculously, Malfoy sat quietly and finished almost his entire beer. When he only had a few sips left, Harry cleared his throat.

"Is your wand out, Malfoy?" he said calmly

"What? No, why?" Malfoy said, instantly on guard.

"Should be."

And thankfully, Draco was quick. He was quick enough that as Harry slowly levelled his wand at him, the blond shifted his wand out of his sleeve and into his hand. When Harry muttered an almost lazy, ' _Stupefy'_ , Draco's ' _Expelliarmus'_ was close enough after it that he just barely edged the other man out, and the other wand shot into his outstretched palm.

"What the actual bloody fuck," he said, carefully not taking his eyes off the man who had just tried to stun him in the back corner of a frigging muggle pub. "Anyone could have seen you! Why the- Oh..."

In that moment, Draco felt the weight of the wand in his hand, familiar and perfectly balanced. He stared down at it as the reasons sunk in.  
_  
Ten inches, hawthorne. Unicorn hair core. Reasonably pliant._

"Wands are fickle, silly things, Malfoy," Potter said softly, startling Draco more than if he had been yelling. "You needed to win it back from me."

Draco lowered both wands and looked at his lap. He felt a little emotional, which was a ridiculous thing to feel over a tree branch.

"I'm going to go. Sorry for being so….morose," Potter said across from him.

"See you next week?" Draco muttered at him, the words leaping from his throat. He wasn't sure where they'd come from; did he want to see Potter next week? Gone were his excuses. If they had drinks now, they would just be having drinks. Confused, Draco refused himself further words, clamping down on his tongue.

Potter stood, gripping the edge of the table harder than was necessary. Draco heard him take a deep breath.

"Don't see why not," he said with a tone of nonchalant carelessness that sounded very, very forced.

As he walked away, Draco looked down at his wand again and muttered 'thank you' to a person who was no longer there.


	10. Chapter 10

 

It took a disturbing amount of time for Ambroz to get back to Harry. It was disturbing for a number of reasons, the most important one being that Harry had agreed to let either Galloway or Ambroz owl him when his 'wand' was ready, given that the secret was now out. This meant that if they bothered to trace the owl they'd know where he lived. Almost as important, however, was the fact that he had not been brought into the loop on whatever the plan was for showing him how to use the wand. All Ambroz had told him when he'd left that day was 'be prepared for anything, mate', which was neither helpful nor comforting, especially when Palacky had paired it with an evil, sickening grin. Harry had nodded, but he'd also felt his stomach tie itself immediately into knots.

He spent the eleven and a half days between his time in Galloway's living room and the final arrival of an obnoxious screech owl pacing. Pacing, and contemplating, and scheming. Which was hard to do with zero information, so he isolated himself completely; he skipped his meeting with Dent and his lesson with Leon.

By the third day, he was going a little bit insane.

While Malfoy had unknowingly left the city, Harry had reached down to the bottom of his old, battered trunk, and pulled out an equally old and battered wand. When he weighed the Hawthorn stick in his hand, it made him scowl. This one silly object was representative of everything that had passed between him and Malfoy. It felt odd to remember, as though the various moments he'd spent here with the Malfoy's in the Netherlands were a time apart. Which, frankly, they were. It was much easier to pretend the war hadn't happened when he was already pretending to be someone he wasn't.

He held the wand carefully up, comparing it to his own critically; he'd never really liked Malfoy's wand, he realised. And not just because he'd never gotten it to work as well as his own; it was too short, and it didn't balance nicely in his hand. It hummed with a magic that he could never quite figure out, and whenever he'd cast with it, he'd felt off. There had been no point in using it once he'd repaired his own, but he used it to lock and unlock his door a few times and was satisfied to know it was still not right.

By the time Tuesday rolled around, however, he had been with his own thoughts for far too long. He tucked the wand in his sock and headed down to the pub. He bought Malfoy's pint, but almost left twice before the other man showed up. Then, he'd gone and embarrassed himself completely with his pathetic, remorseful question, and had fled before Malfoy could mock him for it.

He waited, and waited, and waited some more. He was miserable. He almost went back to Galloway's on his own on the ninth day, and only managed not to by borrowing the neighbour's dog and going for a long, rambling walk.

When the screech owl had finally knocked on his window, he'd answered it within ten minutes, and was at Galloway's flat in fifteen, much to Ambroz's amusement.

"Ready, I suppose?" he chuckled "Don't blame you. I'm excited too."

"What are we doing, though, Broshik?" Harry asked nervously. He supposed allowing the nervousness to show through could do no harm now. "Am I dressed right?"

The light was beginning to fade over the horizon. It might already be June, but the sunset took a long time, and it was dusk for ages before darkness fell. He was nervous about being out at night, nervous about this wand business, nervous that Palacky was so calm. Something was not right, and every Auror sense in his body was screaming in protest.

"Don't worry, Jamie," Ambroz replied, rapping on the door to Galloway's.

When the old wizard opened the door he looked tired and even more haggard than Harry remembered.

"Gentlemen," he said, sounding exhausted.

"Ernst, you have Jamie's wand?"

"I do," he said. "Come in."

Once inside, Galloway disappeared into a room Harry had not noticed before and returned carrying a long, thin object wrapped in cloth.

"Now, Mr Evander," he said carefully. "This object is very powerful. You have never tried to control your magic before. It will take time before you are fully able to use it. Ambroz has had his longest. He will be the one to show you what to do. Go, now, Ambroz. You haven't much time. Be careful."

"Are you not coming?" Harry said, knowing he sounded anxious again.

"Try to worry a little less, Jamie," Ambroz said amicably. "You'll be in excellent care."

Galloway unwrapped the cloth in his hands and revealed a shiny metal rod beneath. It glimmered with a strange colour, and even from across the room, Harry could feel the magical hum coming from it.

"What is it made of?" he asked, in awe despite himself. The wand was beautiful.

"Mostly copper alloy. Mixed with pure platinum, and a dash of gold for stability."

"And the core?" Harry asked.

"Is still my secret," Galloway said, a little harshly.

"Let's go, Jamie," Ambroz said, taking the wand from Galloway and handing it to Harry without ceremony.

The wand was heavy, which made sense since it was metal, but it felt strange and unpleasant. Now that he was touching it, the magic hum was almost deafening, and he had to use all his focus not to show his discomfort. He wasn't sure that Jamie would be able to feel the wand since he wasn't sure if squibs, even fake ones, could sense magic as wizards could. He levelled the wand to his face, and the shimmering surface reflected a distorted view of his own forehead back at him.

"Now," said Ambroz once they stood outside the flat. "I have something to do, quickly. I need to go alone, I hope you understand. Can you meet me at the pub in an hour?"

"Uh," Harry said eloquently, a bit shocked by the sudden abandonment. He had been ready for instant action from Palacky now that he had the prized wand in his possession. "The Duck? Uh, yeah, sure."

"Good. And seriously, Jamie. Calm. Down. You're going to like this," Ambroz said, backing away quickly in the opposite direction from which he had arrived. The grin on his face told Harry that he absolutely was not going to enjoy this.

He sprinted down the closest ally he found, and Apparated on the spot, even though he suspected he was going to regret the decision tonight when he was utterly exhausted.

" I need this wand examined," he rushed, bursting straight into Dent's office without waiting for Yvette, and startling the man in a rare caught-off-guard gesture.

"For what?" Dent said, feigning calm. Harry could see the disquiet on his face. Maybe he looked as crazed and panicked as he felt.

"Dunno. Everything. Anything," Harry said, catching his breath and leaning on his knees.

"Okay, leave it here," Dent said, gesturing to the desk. "I'll get it back to you in a few days."

"Dent!" he shouted, gesturing at his own out of breath form. "No time!"

Dent observed him with suspicion, then took his own wand and tapped the magical box on the desk.

"Yvette, please call Auror Weasley," he said slowly. "Apparently, we need a wand examined."

"What!?" Harry shouted, outraged and frustrated. "Ron can't see me! He'll know me right away, Dent. Where is your head? Now is really not the time for you to be off your game, mate!"

Dent levelled a careful glare at Harry, and even though he didn't respect him, Harry recognised that he had overstepped and mumbled an apology.

"You can go wait in the inner office," Dent said, crossing his arms. "We have to call Weasley if you want this done quickly. He's the dark magic expert on call. I have no choice."

Harry paced endlessly for the twenty minutes it took Ron to examine the wand, a thin door the only thing separating him from the familiar cadence of his best friend, muttering spell after spell, checking for hexes or curses, checking for dark magic. Harry desperately wanted to rush out and wrap the other man in a giant bear hug, one that was three years overdue, but he reminded himself how close he was, how soon it was possible for him to go home, and only just managed to keep his cool.

Finally, Dent opened the door.

"Says it seems legit, but a little weird. Are you okay, Potter?" Dent said, not seeming like he actually cared.

Harry was wound up, springing forward, grabbing the wand and shouting, "Yeah, got to go. Thanks."

He ran back into the outer office and shoved the metal wand into his sock so he could Apparate to the pub. He had to sit on a bench for a full five minutes when he arrived because he could barely breathe, but he figured it had been worth it because a short moment later when he pulled open the door, he found Ambroz tapping a foot and standing by the bar angrily.

"Jamie," Ambroz said impatiently. "You're late."

"Right. Sorry," he replied, "Got a bit turned around leaving Galloway's. The thing is hidden, though. Assume we don't want anyone to see it?"

"Not really. Good," Ambroz praised him like he was a puppy. Harry held back a grimace.

They walked along the canal for a solid fifteen minutes before Ambroz paused, cleared his throat and leant on a rail. Harry stood beside him, shuffling his feet.

"I want to tell you a bit more, about my family. About who they were."

Harry made a non-committal sound and held his breath.

"Among wizards, they were very prestigious," Ambroz continued. "Highly respected for a long time."

Harry thought this was stretching the case a bit, but he was hardly in a position to disagree.

"My father though, he was an idiot."

On that, they agreed. Harry said, "Yeah, I know what that's like."

He sent a silent apology to his dad, wherever he may be.

"Ha," Ambroz laughed. "Yes, I'm sure. My mother, she was poor. He slept with her, and threw her away like a piece of garbage. Sent me to live with my grandmother. And she, well...she was pure evil. I…I was punished, like you, but they never got around to sending me away. They just beat me whenever I accidently exploded a glass or changed the colour of my jumpers. I was told that I couldn't be magic, because my blood wasn't pure enough. Eventually, I believed them."

"Anyone would," Harry said softly.

"But Jamie, that isn't true," Ambroz whispered.

"Well, no," he replied. For the first time ever, he definitely agreed with Palacky. He suspected that agreement wouldn't last long, however.

"We are more powerful than they are because we understand better," Ambroz said. "We are more powerful because we know both worlds. We can control the Muggles, if we try. We can control the Purebloods, too. They don't suspect us. They don't expect us to be able to do anything."

The vehemence that had entered Palacky's voice was uncomfortably reminiscent of a speech from Lucius Malfoy, and Harry shuddered. Still, he needed more information.

"But, Broshik, what is it we can do? What is it you want?"

Ambroz looked directly at Harry, and suddenly, his own silvery wand was in his hand. He smiled slowly.

"Jamie," he said. "I want them all dead."

Harry honestly had no response. Ambroz turned around and aimed his silvery wand at a passing pedestrian, an older lady carrying her shopping with long, wispy grey hair and round glasses.

He looked one more time at Harry and whispered, "Just watch what I can do, now. With this."

The air suddenly crackled and fizzled. It felt like a lightning storm, and it was nothing that Harry had ever experienced before, even after standing beside Voldemort. It wasn't exactly more powerful. It was just… off. Wrong. Uncontrolled. Ambroz moved his arm wildly, and several things happened at once.

Harry was knocked off his feet by the surge of magic that appeared.

A blue light, one he'd never seen before, anywhere, extended from Ambroz's wand and exploded into the chest of the passing Muggle he had aimed at.

And, almost simultaneously, the Muggle fell to the ground in a very unnatural way, limbs stretching at odd angles, hair flying wildly. Even without checking on her Harry could tell that she was dead. He scrambled to his feet, feeling guilty about the surge of relief that hit him. Ambroz acting so rashly, so violently, had always been a possibility, but Harry had never imagined he'd be there to see it. He felt a grim sense of luck wash over him.

He pulled his real wand from its wrist holster, and called on long neglected spells, instantly binding Palacky's wrists and keeping him still. He rushed forward to the woman, but she stared up at him with a blank gaze. He murmured an apology at her, distressed in a way that he had not been in a long while for having been unable to save her. He stood up, shook himself off, and cast the notice-me-not spells in an attempt to secure the scene. He sent a Patronus off to the local Magical law enforcement, and finally turned to Ambroz.

Who was standing there, looking shocked and furious, and if possible, even more off balance than normal. The spells Harry had cast at him had thrown his clothes all of kilter, and his hair was in disarray. He couldn't speak because Harry had tied his tongue, but he was still trying, shouting incoherent noises of frustration and struggling to escape his bonds.

"Mr Palacky," Harry said with as little glee as possible. "I am Auror Potter. By the grace of the Minister for Magic and the Organisation for International Magical Cooperation, I have the power to detain you. For the crime of attacking a Muggle using magic, you are under arrest. You do not have to speak, but anything spoken now will be used as evidence against you when you are questioned further. You will be transferred to the Ministry where you will be appointed a solicitor at your request."

Harry was happy that the words had come back to him so easily. He'd not had to use them in quite some time, and the last thing he needed was for Palacky to get off on some stupid clerical error. The Dutch Aurors arrived all at once, landing in a tight circle formation and looking around. Their ridiculous orange uniforms always made Harry grin, and as he identified himself and briefed them as quickly as possible, explaining the situation in only simple terms and with little detail, he knew they were annoyed that he was involved. The cooperation act may have been legal, but few Auror organisations enjoyed the process of relinquishing control to foreign operators. And undercover investigations annoyed him as much as they annoyed them. Still, he knew his rights, and Harry nodded at the lead Auror when the woman told him he could take the suspect away.

He reached into his pocket, and comfortable that Palacky was securely bound, pulled out his emergency Portkey. He thrust the button that read "ask me about my grandchildren!" into Palacky's hand and felt the familiar tug on his navel that took him to Dent's office.

Dent was meeting with a small befuddled looking wizard when they landed hard on the carpet.

"Sorry to just drop in like this, Dent, but I seem to require prisoner transfer and a holding cell."

The expression of shock and awe on Dent's face was one that Harry would carry with him to his grave.

For the next three hours, into the early hours of the morning, Harry grinned. Through the tedious paperwork and sworn statements, through a handshake from Kingsley, through testimony to the partial Wizengamot that had been hastily called, and the extraction of his memories, he smiled. Even when he had to go through the terrible process of Legilimency, with Dent rooting around in the memories he allowed the man to access, Harry was grinning.

Because he had succeeded. He had arrested the idiot, finally, and on legitimate charges. But more importantly, because his case was over. He could stop being blond. Stop being Jamie. Stop lying to his family and himself.

He could go home.


	11. Chapter 11

Harry was in an understandably giddy sort of mood the day of the eighth weekly drinks with Malfoy. It was late June. Two weeks since he’d arrested Palacky. Almost five weeks since he had given Draco back his wand, and they were just breaking into ‘amicable conversation’. Neither were exactly clear as to why they were still meeting, but neither was ever late. Harry was, oddly, starting to mark time around the things that happened when he saw Draco and Narcissa Malfoy. There were subtle and odd shifts he was noticing that he felt were somehow connected to them.

Three weeks earlier, he and Malfoy had gotten into a screaming match about Quidditch that had prompted Malfoy to stand up and walk out. 

Two weeks earlier, Harry had shoved a candle into a basket of chips after hearing from Narcissa that June 5th was his birthday. Malfoy had not found it funny. He'd stormed out of the pub again.

Harry never really meant to piss Malfoy off, but it was pretty funny every time it happened. It was funny until the conversation he’d had with Narcissa just that Friday. He’d been so excited to thank her for her help, to tell her about the end of his case. Unfortunately, her mood had been sour. 

Harry had spent the first ten minutes trying to sort out what he’d done wrong before he realised that this may just be a part of whatever was wrong with Narcissa. Finally, he’d suggested they go for a walk. He’d steered away from the bright and noisy market, walking the tree-lined banks of the canal to the east instead.

“Narcissa?” had been all he had said, growing concerned at her silence. 

Suddenly, she had taken his arm. He was so much shorter than her that this felt like a ludicrous walking pattern, but he’d gripped her tightly anyway, trying to suffuse her with his comfort. 

“When he was quite small,” Narcissa had smiled down at him, “Draco found a rabbit in the garden. A great big hare, actually, just going back to brown after the winter. It was injured. I think it had gotten caught in a fence somewhere. Its front leg wasn’t working.” 

She’d looked at Harry, but he’d just smiled at her, encouraged by the fact that she was talking. 

“Draco insisted on bringing the thing inside. He was hard to resist in those days, with a mop of white hair and eyes that took up most of his face. I let him hide it in the kitchens. I knew Lucius would -” She broke off. “Anyway,” she began again, softer still. “He kept it. Fed it and kept it warm. It was wonderful to watch, actually. He just had this...instinct, on how to care for it. He can’t have been more than four.” 

She shook her head. 

“The thing got better, eventually.” Her tone was sad at that point, making Harry frown. “And it got out. The elves said that they had seen it hop out the kitchen door. It was very big, you know, it doesn’t surprise me that it found a way out once it’s foot was better.” 

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? That it was free again?” Harry had said, confused  and uncomfortable by her tone, worried about where this story was leading. 

“Yes, it should have been,” she sighed. “But Draco didn’t believe me when I said it had just gotten loose because it was healthy again. He just started screaming, ‘you killed him, I know you killed him’. It was dreadful, the sound. He was inconsolable for hours. When Lucius got home, he screamed in his face, and only then did Draco stop crying.” 

“Well, I’m sure he was just upset.”

“No, it wasn’t that,” Narcissa had said, shaking her head and seeming frustrated that he wasn’t getting it. “He never asked for a pet, ever. He never took care of anything ever again. He didn’t trust me, you see. Draco was convinced, practically from birth, that no one was ever being honest with him. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s just his nature.” 

“Narcissa, why are you-” Harry had tried to interrupt.

“I think he trusts you,” she’d said, stopping and fixing him with a patent Narcissa gaze from those icy eyes, suddenly clear and imploring. “Since the wand. He trusts you.” 

“Narcissa, I think Draco trusts you,” Harry said a little desperately. 

“No dear, he loves me. That is not the same thing. I just thought...you realise that you like him, I assume? Like him...rather a lot. He might not have realised it yet, and I don’t know...maybe you don’t know either. But I needed you to understand; he trusts you when he trusts no one. I think he probably trusted you in school, actually. Just not in a good way. He believed the things you said to him were true, even then.” 

She’d fallen dead silent then, and Harry found he had no reply. There’d been too much in that statement to process right away. 

“I just needed you to know, before you leave us…” Narcissa had finished softly. 

Guilt flooded his entire body; how had he not considered that he was the cause of Narcissa’s mood? He’d been so happy about the end of the case when he got to the hospital that morning. He had been tactless and almost mean, telling her that he was going to go back to England. He tried to keep things light for the rest of the afternoon, buying an elaborate lunch and talking about how lovely the day was. 

He didn’t dwell on what Narcissa had said about his emotions, about his feelings towards Malfoy, about the shift that had been occurring for weeks now. The story she’d told him sat in the back of his mind, festering slightly and taking up the room he had reserved for ignoring other things, but he found he was unable to maintain the guilt once he wasn’t sitting in front of Mrs Malfoy.

Palacky was under the Ministry's control, and Harry's life was about to go back to normal, so he was too happy to be down about it for long. Because there was no way that Narcissa’s goal had been to make him act on his strange…. _ feelings _ about Draco. 

When he showed up at the pub to their regular Tuesday table, Draco was there first for the first time ever, and for some reason, the snarled annoyance on his face from having to wait put a warm sort of glee in the pit of Harry’s stomach. 

From the time he sat across from Draco, he was too giddy not to joke and cajole him. It seemed to throw his drinking buddy for a loop. The whole evening, he'd been tapping the table in nervous patterns, half grinning at each joke made until he realised he was grinning, and then scowling comically instead. 

Harry said one more thing, and even as the words left his mouth, he knew he was pushing it. Sure enough, Draco stood up angrily, almost knocking everything off the table. Again. 

Harry sighed. It was about that time of the night, after all. The point when Draco would get angry at something Harry had said and storm out of the pub.

"I honestly don't know why I keep showing up, P- Jamie."

"Neither do I, Malfoy,” Harry replied with a smirk. “But I think you're angrier that I haven't actually done anything to make you angry. At least this time."

Draco glared at him. Technically, this was true. The cause for his outburst this time had been a good-natured ribbing, a quip about how his hair had almost grown out long enough for him to be recognisable again. And his anger was probably better placed as discomfort, but he was Draco Malfoy, and anger was his first reaction at all times. Potter didn't get to be an exception.

"Whatever. I'm leaving,” he said finally. 

"I'll see you next week," Harry called after him.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry calmly finished his pint, took their glasses back to the bar because he felt like it, and walked out into the warm summer air. It was just starting to get dark, and the canal was sparkling. He smiled lightly to himself and turned onto the walkway.

"You know, it's not like your hair is anything to speak of, especially like this. You really are not suited to being a blonde."

Harry had to call on every well-trained reflex not to jump at the voice of the man leaning on the wall next to the pub. He hadn't seen him, though, and it was with much difficulty that he appeared nonchalant when he answered.

"Yeah, I've heard. Your mother doesn't like it much either."

"I can see why. It's unnatural. We natural blondes find that offensive."

Harry laughed. He turned fully to see Draco perched against the brick garden wall of the building next to the pub, one foot bent and flat against the wall, arms crossed as usual, a cigarette dangling precariously from one hand. He looked so much more at ease than Harry was used to seeing him, but if felt all wrong. Like an act.

"Whatcha doing, Draco?" he said, mostly for something to say.

He watched as Malfoy bristled at his first name, just as he always did. It was hard to deal with the weirdness of their names when Malfoy had to call him 'Jamie'. Still, Draco's name wasn't a secret, and Harry was trying to start using it more often. He had to be careful though. This was something that had to be done slowly, sporadically. Like taming a wild animal. If he tried to move too quickly he had a feeling he'd just scare the Malfoy off for good.

He was determined he would succeed though; it felt way too immature to be on a first name basis with this man's mother and still be calling him by his surname. Especially when he kept unwillingly hearing childhood stories that made it harder and harder to think of Malfoy as an 'enemy'. He wasn't sure they were friends yet, and this 'somewhere in the middle' thing was getting very confusing.

So yes.

Draco.

"Smoking," he finally replied.

"I see. I, uh, didn't know you smoked."

"Don't anymore. Not often. But sometimes, emotional distress can only be cured by a few drags."

"Emotional distress?" Harry said, laughing. "I would have thought you'd be less sensitive about your hair by now."

"It's not...shut up, Potter. Either leave me be or take one. It might slow your inane chatter."

"I'll go then. Heard those things are bad for you."

For some reason, that statement made Draco kick himself upright from his recline, and scoff fully, cigarette dangling from his hand as he exhaled his last drag in a huff.

"Harry Potter," Draco hissed quietly, looking around and finding no one else on the street with them. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never, ever smoked a cigarette?"

Harry shook his head.

"That is utterly ridiculous."

"What?" Harry laughed again. "Why? I just didn't pick it up. Hate the smell. Didn't see the point."

"There is no point, Jamie. That is exactly why you do it! Merlin's beard, how are you so bad at being a hero? You could do anything you bloody well please, and here you are, hiding in Amsterdam and being disgustingly boring."

Draco looked genuinely annoyed as he stepped forward, "That's it. Come here, this instant. You are trying a cigarette."

He fished in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a very squashed packet, so at odds with the meticulous thing that was Draco that it made Harry laugh again as he approached the wall. Draco took out a cigarette and held it out to Harry.

He paused a moment before taking it and placing it between his lips.

"Inhale," Draco ordered before leaning in close and lighting it with his own.

Harry froze only for a moment before inhaling slightly, ignoring the proximity because of the sudden heat and taste and horribleness that hit his mouth and then his lungs.

He tried desperately not to cough. In films, the first timer always coughed, and Draco would only mock him if he did. He just managed it, but he also felt like he may just throw up, if his lungs didn't explode first.

"Cough, you dolt. It helps," Draco said, a huge grin on his face. He took another drag of his own cigarette. "Just try again. It gets better. It's like sex…gets better the more you do it."

Harry inhaled again and looked at his feet as he muttered, "I wouldn't know much about that either."

Draco's mouth fell open for a third time. He said nothing for a moment.

"You are joking right?"

"Erm-"

"We live in bloody Amsterdam!"

"Yeah, why does that matter? What, because of the Lights? Never held much appeal for me, to be honest."

"Circe save me. You really are ridiculous, boy hero," Draco shook his head and started to walk away. He paused and turned back, "You coming?"

Harry looked up quizzically, "Where?"

"Don't know. But it's a gorgeous evening, and it's way more fun wandering Nieuwmarkt with other people."

Harry didn't know how he'd managed to get back in Draco's good graces with a few drags on a cigarette and the revealing of an embarrassing secret, but he was bizarrely pleased. He decided not to think about it, and followed Draco as he wandered away from the pub into the centre of the square.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, which in and of itself was weird. Harry took a few more drags of the smoke still in his hand, surprised that it really wasn't as bad as the first one, though he was pretty sure that he wasn't going to take it up permanently.

"Erm, what do I- do I just put it out?" he said a moment later.

"Merlin, give me that," Draco said, his acerbic tone at odds with the smirk on his face. He finished his own cigarette, putting it out in a bin and replacing it with Harry's. "Don't waste a cigarette. I only let myself buy one pack a month."

Harry laughed. Draco's eyes were full of mirth and he looked oddly unguarded. It was a little bit unnerving, and Harry didn't know what to do about it so he just shut his mouth. They walked a bit more, approaching the square again from a different angle. Draco seemed comfortable leading as he steered them north. Before he knew what was happening, they were standing in the Old Church Square and Harry felt like he'd been trapped.

"We don't have to go, but I always find it amusing," Draco said, smirking at Harry's discomfort.

"We can go," Harry said, forcing his Gryffindor to the surface at the prospect of wandering the Red Light in the early evening.

"It's just so weird at this time of day. It's so early, and yet, it's full of gawking tourists, with their cameras and their children. Muggles," Draco said, shaking his head in a weirdly affectionate way, frustrated but obviously charmed by the oddness.

"You sound like a true _Mokummer_ ," Harry teased. "Complaining about the tourists."

"Look at you, with the Dutch. Besides, you are more _Mokummer_ than I am, living in the city as long as you have. Your bicycle is orange, for crying out loud."

"Hey, you leave Bessie out of this," Harry laughed as they turned up the first Red Light street. "Yup, this is still weird. I haven't been here for years."

"I get that," Draco said seriously.

They walked past the brothels, quiet again, laughing to each other anytime they passed another family of Muggle tourists. Draco kept looking at Harry, and it was starting to make him uncomfortable. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to be acting, but based on the slight frown that hit Malfoy's mouth every time he looked over, he guessed he was getting it wrong.

Finally, Draco sighed. "I'm gay."

Harry looked up at the sudden pronouncement, but shrugged. "I know. Your mum mentioned."

Draco shook his head with a frustrated huff. "Well, I mean, is there anything you don't know? Would you like me to go get her and she can tell you this story?"

"Sorry," Harry muttered.

"Whatever. Just listen," Draco said sourly. "I'm gay. I knew in fifth year…well, okay no, I knew well before that, but. Anyway. I had a few things going on for the next couple years, as you know. But then I got here after the trial and things are just so much more…open here, than England, you know?"

"Well, yeah. It's sort of infamous for that," Harry said, gesturing all around them.

"Yeah, but it's more than this-"

"I know," Harry interrupted, "Sorry. I get what you mean."

Draco nodded. He took a deep breath.

"I slept around for a bit. I was pretty angry, for a very long time. It was just easier."

He stopped talking for a moment, and watched the cobbles as they left the street they were on and hit the square again.

"Why are you telling me this, Draco?" he said.

Draco didn't look at him, just turned toward the window they were passing, and muttered, "Dunno."

Harry looked at his walking companion sidelong. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say in return.

"Okay," he settled on eventually. It felt small and worthless, but it made Draco smile at him slightly, so he left it alone.

Half an hour later, they hadn't been speaking for some time. It was comfortable at first, but it became pregnant with expectation, and Harry knew he was supposed to say something back.

"I took up photography," he finally muttered.

Which made Malfoy burst out laughing loud enough that he scared a pigeon at their feet.

"What?!"

"I did. I study it, actually. With a Muggle photographer," Harry heard himself get defensive, and he tried to drag himself back to neutrality. He failed miserably.

"I'm…well, I'm pretty good, actually. I sort of lied, back at the flat that first day you saw me. I didn't just see you. I actually…took a photo of you."

"What?" Draco said, staring at Harry now. He shook his head, "You realise of course how creepy that makes you sound."

"It was an accident! Well…the first one was anyway," Harry said, laughing at himself.

"You complete and utter stalker. And don't you dare blame the job. You've always been a stalker."

"If you are talking about sixth year," Harry said, still inexplicably laughing. He should probably not be finding this conversation humorous. "I'll remind you that you were in fact up to something."

Which was exactly the wrong thing to have said; he'd realised it before he'd even finished the sentence, but couldn't force his mouth to shut up. Draco's face went instantly closed, dark for a brief flash before falling into the even more terrifying 'Malfoy mask' that made him look so much like Narcissa, it made him wince.

"I didn't mean…look, we aren't those people anymore. I have blond hair, for fuck sake."

Draco's eyes snapped up to Harry's hair, and miraculously, he actually smiled lightly. Harry released the breath he was holding.

"And you swear like a Muggle," Draco added.

"That too," Harry agreed, moving his feet forward and hoping Draco would move too. They walked a bit further, but the air around them had shifted in the telling of secrets.

"Will you show me your photos?" Draco muttered, as though he wasn't sure he actually wanted Harry to hear him.

"You only want to see the one I took of you, you conceited git," Harry replied.

"Well, I would make a very good subject, you must admit."

Harry's skin prickled a little bit, and he tried his best not to admit to himself that it was because Draco would make an excellent subject; he pushed Leon's words about his photos being better if he cared about his subject from his mind and forced himself to laugh.

"Sure, you can see 'em sometime."

"Got anything on right now?" Draco said, stopping mid-stride.

"Well, I mean…um, I guess not?" Harry said, scrubbing the back of his neck.

Except that there was no way that was happening. The photos were at his very awful flat; the one where his bed was in the living room because his dark room was in the closet of his bedroom and he'd turned the whole thing into a studio. The one where he hadn't done dishes in three days, and hadn't done laundry in far longer than that, and where the plant was dead in the corner because he wasn't actually sure how or when he'd gotten a plant to begin with.

The last thing he wanted was Draco Malfoy anywhere near his flat. He wasn't entirely sure why, but he knew for certain that it was true. His brain reeled as he tried to find a solution.

"Actually, we should go to my teacher's studio instead," he said quickly. "It's closer and we won't have to find a place to Apparate."

Draco nodded, and looked slightly crestfallen, which Harry refused to process as a real fact. He gestured for Draco to follow him, and took a tight right towards the museum. It was faster to get there this way, but Draco seemed frustrated as he walked with hands shoved deep in dark trousers. His clicky shoes clicked on the cobbles, and Harry wanted to laugh ludicrously again even though he knew the mood had changed.

"Are you okay to walk like fifteen minutes? The studio is in the West end."

"What? Why wouldn't I be okay?" Draco said, sounding irritated.

"No, it's not…it's just…your shoes are so fancy," Harry said, unable to keep the tone of humour from his voice. Which he was sure would be disastrous.

But Malfoy proved both how unpredictable he was, and how little Harry actually knew him. And he started laughing; the sound was not the short, quiet chuffs he'd been hearing on very rare occasions for the past month or so. It was bright, shocked, full of humour. It hit Harry in the chest, and made him realise that he was talking to a fully formed adult, possibly for the first time ever.

"Jamie," Draco said, taking a breath. "I could run a marathon in these shoes. They are seven hundred Euro Italian leather."

Harry watched, a little shocked still.

"And yes. They're Muggle shoes," Draco drawled, his eyes widening in mock horror.

Harry choked on his own laugh.

"Calm down, Potter. You might choke. Lead on. I assure you my feet are just fine."

Harry nodded, and started walking on. He didn't know if it strictly mattered anymore, but years of caution made him add, "I really need you not to call me-"

"Right. Sorry. Didn't mean to. Hard habit to break," Draco smiled. "Just, no more stalling. You've claimed to be very good, and now I demand to see these photos. It's only nine. I'm hoping this teacher of yours is the sort that works all hours so I can talk him into giving me the picture of me."

The rest of the walk was fast and jovial. Draco made random comments about things he saw on the canals, which was just a typical Amsterdam reality. Harry kept up a running diatribe of interesting things about the area, realising that since Draco had always lived out of the city, he didn't know them already. To his horror, the light on Leon's top story studio was indeed on. He was likely still processing prints.

"Leon?" he called as they stepped through the big sliding doors. "It's Jamie."

Leon stuck his head around the corner of the wash stations and held up a finger. The red light over the dark room went off, and Leon hobbled out with a look of shocked pleasure.

"My Jamie! I don't see you half the time when I am supposed to, and now you are here in the middle of the night. And with a friend, I see. _Goedeavond_ ," he said, extending a hand that Draco immediately took.

" _Goedeavond_ , Meneer. Draco Malfoy," he said, with a smile on his face that Harry had never seen before. One of bonhomie and lightness, and apology, all at once. " _We vinden het jammer dat ik u stoor."_

Harry stared, the way he always did on the few occasions he had heard Draco switch seamlessly to Dutch. They had been living in the country the same amount of time, but Harry had never really picked up the language. People so readily spoke English, and living in the city, there was really no need. Draco, however, made him ashamed of that fact. He spoke beautifully, and although Harry had no claim to know how natural it was, it never ceased to bring a smile to the face of whatever countryman he spoke to. It made Harry blush to think that he had never even bothered.

Leon was, unsurprisingly, delighted. Harry thought it was likely that, with that smile, and the easy manners that Draco had when he chose to use them, anyone could be charmed by Draco Malfoy.

Anyone.

 _"Geen last van, nooit een moeite met_ Jamie _,_ " Leon said with a huge grin. " _Ook leuk jou te ontmoeten_ …oh but look, we have lost him, poor boy. Englishmen, right?"

"Sadly, yes. With this one especially."

"Ah, but you are English too!" Leon laughed. "I shall forgive you, with such lovely Dutch. All I said was it was a pleasure to meet him, Jamie. No need to look so concerned. He thought you were being a bother, I assured him you were not. How can I help?"

"He wants to see my photos."

Leon looked at him sharply. No one had ever seen his photos, and Leon knew that better than anyone. He had been pestering him to have a show for months.

"I will bring your folio," Leon said with a knowing grin. Just what he thought he knew was a mystery to Harry, but he shrugged at Draco's quirked eyebrow just the same.

Half an hour later, with port wine and a huge folio of his photos in front of him, with Leon and Draco chatting easily over them, he held his head in his hands and questioned the wisdom of ever agreeing to talk to Draco Malfoy.

"Ah, but this one! I see it now, don't you, Jamie! It is him…I should have seen it was him," Leon shouted.

But Harry didn't have to look up to know which photo they had stumbled onto. He did have to look up, though, at Draco's quiet 'oh', a tiny gasp which may or may not have been voluntary.

Draco's brow was furrowed, and he was staring down at the large, A4-sized photo. Harry had forgotten that the original darkroom shot was here, the one with the extra exposure, the extra light. The beautiful one. Draco was looking down at it with his mouth slightly open, his free hand drumming a pattern on the table top, a now familiar sign of his discomfort.

"I told you, do you see…even he thinks it's beautiful."

Draco looked up and caught Harry staring, and he knew by the heat in his own cheeks that they were both now blushing.

"I didn't mean to take it. I didn't even know you were in the city at the time."

"It's.…well, I'll sound awfully conceited, but-"

"That's not usually a problem for him," Harry said to Leon, trying for a joke but falling very flat.

"It's okay to say," Leon said, smiling. "It is a gorgeous photo. You look almost ethereal, like a ghost. Or a memory."

When Draco looked up again, his gaze torn between Harry and Leon, his eyes were hooded, his expression guarded and his face still red.

"Jamie here just captured the entirety of our…er, friendship. In one photo. That he didn't know I was in when he took it." Draco shook his head. "Someone should give this man a gallery."

"I keep saying," Leon said, laughing. "It's nice to have an ally in the cause."

At this statement, Harry and Draco locked eyes again. And they immediately burst out laughing.

"You know, Meneer, I can say without a shadow of a doubt that no one has ever referred to us that way before, even by association," Draco tried to explain.

Harry smiled wryly.

"With that, I really must be going," Draco said suddenly. "Thank you for showing me…Jamie."

"Jamie, are you walking your friend home?" Leon said, winking embarrassingly. "You know this area can be a bit cagey. Walking together is always safer."

"I assure you, Mr. Malfoy has always been very good at taking care of himself. But I should be going too. You've been too generous, with the wine. _Tot ziens_ , friend."

" _Tot ziens_. Sooner, rather than later, I hope. Meneer Malfoy, you are also welcome anytime."

"Thank you," Draco said, that same warm smile on his face. Harry felt a twinge of something that may have almost been jealousy if you squinted, but he studiously looked at the door and ignored it.

On the street, Draco walked quickly. Harry hesitated for the briefest of moments before deciding to keep up as well.

"You have a bizarre old Dutch photographer as a friend," Draco teased with a hilarious smirk on his face.

"I do. Don't joke. He is wonderful."

"He seems it. I am not teasing you for that. And your photos really are wonderful, too."

"They're not. I'm still learning."

Draco grinned. Then looked at Harry fully.

"I'm going to go home, now. You should too. Thank you for a better evening than I was originally anticipating, Potter. I'll see you next week."

Without waiting for a response, Draco took a large step in the vacant street and spun into Apparition. Leaving Harry on the sidewalk, feeling both vulnerable and happy, free and trapped, alone and so very surrounded.


	13. Chapter 13

Draco woke much too early the next morning, feeling completely disjointed and miserable. He tore out of bed and went to the coffee shop, where his favourite dark haired barista was working. When even their playful banter couldn’t wash the weird taste from his mouth, he took his coffee and began walking. 

He knew even before he had arrived that he was headed to the studio in the corner of Neiuwest. He looked up at the beautiful white brick building and sighed to himself as he climbed the stairs and knocked on the large, metal door.

It slid open a few moments later to reveal a dishevelled and beaming Leon, who may or may not have slept at some point between last night and now.

“ _Meneer_ Malfoy! A pleasure!”  
  
“Draco, please,” Draco said, smiling despite himself. “I am sorry to bother you so early. I don’t know what came over me.”  
  
Leon smiled that very irritating knowing smile, as though he knew _exactly_ what had come over Draco, which was annoying because he literally didn’t have a clue himself.

“Can I help somehow? _Kaffe_?”

“I have one,” he said, brandishing his take away. “Actually, I meant to ask last night if I could have a copy of that photo that Jamie took. The one on the street. My mother-”  
  
“Yes, yes. I am sure Jamie would not mind. Come in, come in.”  
  
Leon puttered away in the side of the room, and Draco took the chance to look around now that he was not distracted by Harry and photographs and walks by the canal. Every inch of the wall was covered with photos.

“My students,” Leon said fondly, noticing Draco looking around.  
  
“You must be a very good teacher,” Draco said earnestly.  
  
“I am not. I am just enthusiastic,” Leon chuckled. “Here it is. Jamie...he is a good student. Something special in him. But, you know that.”  
  
Draco balked a little, shook his head, “Despite last night, we...we’ve never been close. We’ve just known each other a long time.”  
  
Leon grinned that unnerving grin again, “Fondness growing over time is hardly a new story, my boy. Ah, youth. To have that uncertainty back...I would give my right eye.”

Draco paused for what was likely an awkwardly long moment. He thought about what last night must have looked like to an outsider. He looked at himself and Potter arriving in the late evening, laughing and talking, asking to see photographs. Blushing at those images, losing the ability to speak. He thought objectively about what Leon was saying. And, against his will, his brain also catalogued and resorted the information that he had _noticed_ all of those moments, all of those instances, and all of the ones from the weeks before too.

If he thought about it _too_ long, he would realise that the reasons he had been walking out on Potter had changed.

Since the wand, the first time he’d left, he’d been embarrassed about how much he’d been enjoying arguing about which chaser the Harpies should keep on for another season. The second time, he’d had to go because he had been so close to bursting into tears over that stupid green-and-white striped candle sitting in a soggy, thick cut chip. He hadn’t had anyone celebrate his birthday, in any way, in over eight years.

Still. This man, he had it wrong. He was just getting disturbingly close to being friends with Harry Potter, which was difficult enough for him to process without adding into it any other strange emotional bullshit.

“Sorry, sir,” he said finally, shaking himself out of his contemplation, “But you just have it wrong.”  
  
“ _Mijn ventje_ , I have been around a long time. Trust me when I tell you, you should just tell him,” Leo said, touching Draco’s shoulder, still offering him the photo. “It’ll be less painful in the end.”  
  
“Leon,” Draco said firmly. “That is not my intention.”  
  
“Fine, fine. Whatever. So, you want to learn a few tricks? I have a spare camera. You can have it.”  
  
Draco bristled slightly at the sudden change in tone, but laughed a little as he nodded at Leon. This strange old Dutch man was quickly becoming his favourite part of Amsterdam. He knew he had no ability to take an artistic photo, and he didn’t plan on taking up a new hobby that had been Harry’s hobby first, but he had no plans for today, and the thought of leaving and going back to his own apartment was just too depressing.  
  
“Sure, Leon,” he heard himself agree. “Sounds fun.” 

* * *

At the other end of town, Harry was having a very different morning. He’d woken up with a sense of impending doom, and had been quite literally shocked to find it wasn’t thundering outside. His brain felt fuzzy, and the deep and peaceful sleep he’d actually managed had done nothing to shake the cobwebs from his brain. He decided not to think about the drinks with Malfoy as he Apparated to his meeting with Dent; after all, it was the first time he’d been summoned to the office since the arrest, and knew it was time.

He was standing in Dent’s office, fuming, when it all came crashing down and the source of the feeling of doom revealed itself.  
  
“What do you _mean_ I am not going home,” he said again, his voice dangerously low. The tone was one he had not had to use in a long time.

“We’ve extended your contract,” Dent said calmly for the third time.  
  
“But I have done my assignment. Palacky is in custody. I am _done._ That was the deal when I signed the Soft Move.”  
  
“The case has changed. We need you to stay,” Dent shrugged. “You’ll receive new formal instructions, but for now, you can just continue on the course we set out. I assume you have realised why?”  
  
“Galloway,” he ground out against his will. “Is not my problem.”  
  
“He is now,” Dent said, staring hard at Harry. “You are staying, and you are dealing with this because you know the case. Are we going to have a problem? Because I will remind you of the terms of your continued employment. If the Minister were to find out that you-”  
  
“Stop. Enough,” Harry said, not in the mood for threats. “Owl me new orders.”  
  
He walked out of the room and Apparated. In the park, he raged. He screamed, scaring a few pigeons, kicked the tree his bike was chained to.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!” he bellowed.

He unchained his bike, and rode quickly. Blinking tears away from his eyes that he decided were from the wind. He would not be a grown man crying because he couldn’t go home to England. It had nothing to do with England, of course, and everything to do with _missing things_ ; missing Hermione and Ron, their easy banter. Missing Rose, watching his  goddaughter growing up. Missing Neville and Ginny’s wedding. Missing cold cups of tea and too much cake at the Weasley family dinners. Missing Charlie’s weird christmas gifts, and Angelina’s quiet attempts to make him accept George’s job offers. Missing his life, the one he was supposed to be living.

The conversation with Kingsley he’d had five years ago resurfaced slowly as it always did when he was this angry. It was like he had his head in a Pensieve, being reminded why it was inadvisable to be this mad.

 _“What exactly were you thinking, Auror Potter?” the Minister said._  
  
_“Don’t know that I really was, sir.”_  
  
_“Well, that’s bloody obvious, isn’t it now? What am I supposed to do with you? I can hardly keep Aurors around who kill suspects without a second thought. The press would have a field day. Even if you are Potter.”_  
  
_But Harry was beyond caring. He was done. He hated the field. He was in battle half the time._

 _“It’s fine. I’ll quit.”_  
  
_“I don’t think that’s the problem, though, is it? You’re stuck, Potter. Stuck in a war that’s been over for a year. Stuck in a memory that won’t leave you alone, living in the house where half of it happened. I have a different idea. What do you know about the Netherlands?”_

He never said it, but Kingsley sending him to Amsterdam saved Harry. Saved him jail time. Saved his career, and his reputation. Possibly saved his life. The change of scenery, the completely new identity, they had given him time to get away from his past, just a little bit.

But he was better now. He was a new person, and he wanted to show his friends. He wanted to be with them again.

He arrived at Leon’s studio to pick up his camera, to try and reset his expectations, find a way to love this city again. He walked in to find a jovially chatting, white-blond head, dishevelled and holding a greasing pencil. They were laughing about something as Draco pushed his sleeves up endlessly, revealing a mark that could have been mistaken for a bruise. Except it _wasn’t_ a bruise. And Harry was already angry.  
  
“Hi, Jamie,” Draco said to him grinning wide, and colouring ever so slightly for no apparent reason. Likely, because of something lingering from their strange late night dalliance the night before. The same lingering feeling he himself had woken up with.

The problem was that Harry wasn’t the same Harry as he’d been the night before. Right now, he was angry, hurt, a little broken. And Draco Malfoy was as good as anyone to blame.  
  
“You’re here,” Harry spat.

Draco’s head snapped up, and his face went to that impassive, carefully controlled mask that he’d always worn. Somewhere behind the anger, Harry felt his insides twist; he hated that facial expression, hated seeing it now. But the anger, that was too close to the surface.

“For fuck’s sake,” he went on, louder than was actually necessary in the delicate silence formed by Leon and Draco’s shock. “Of course you’re bloody fucking _here._  Why would anything in my life be held sacred by you? Why the hell did I show you this place. You’ve known for less than twenty four hours and you’re already here without me.”  
  
Leon looked slowly between Draco and Harry. He put down his ruler and took a step back.  
  
“I think,” he said, very calmly. “That I shall give you two men a moment alone. You seem to have things to discuss. I shall bring pastries. And coffee.”

Neither Draco or Harry looked at him as he crossed the room toward the exit.

“Please don’t break anything,” he added before he closed the door.

“Um,” Draco said carefully, not moving. “Everything alright there, Jamie?”  
  
“No.”

He’d meant to elaborate, but the word bit itself off in his throat and he couldn’t seem to go on.  
  
“Well, I mean, I rather figured that out,” Draco said. “What...um, is it something I can help fix? Or do you just need me to go? I’m sorry that I--”  
  
“I am staying in Amsterdam,” Harry clipped again. His face felt hot, his fists were clenched against his will, he felt the tremble in his face. He hoped he looked as terrifying as he felt.

Apparently, he did not. Malfoy took a step toward him.  
  
“Were you not, before?” he said innocently.  
  
“I’m finished my case. I was supposed to be going _home!_ ” Harry replied. He realised he sounded pretty childish. There was no point in trying not to.

Draco nodded, folded his arms. Thought a moment before saying, “I’m sorry? Is it...is there a reason?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Okay,” Draco said slowly. “Well, that sucks, yes. But, I mean, I think we could do without the dramatic-”  
  
“Just shut the fuck up, Malfoy,” Harry said. He noticed, even in his rage, the tiny flinch Draco gave at the tone of his surname. _The git,_ he thought, _doesn’t like it when I call him ‘Draco’, flinches when I say ‘Malfoy’._

“Fine, just trying to help,” Draco spat.  
  
“Yeah, well you can’t. Because you have no bloody fucking clue what you are on about. You are not the one whose entire fucking life was ripped away-”  
  
But he stopped talking abruptly, and watched as Draco’s face formed an even harder, solid thing, an emotion made of ice and anger. It hit him as though Draco had cast a hex at him. He took a quick step toward Draco, who backed away slightly, bumping into the drafting table.  
  
“Draco, I didn’t mean-” he tried to backpedal.  
  
“Save it,” Draco said. “You’re right. I have _no idea_ what it’s like to have no choice but to live in a different country, away from your family and friends. I have _no idea_ what it’s like to feel powerless about the choices you get to make. I would have no clue how you are feeling right now.”  
  
Draco gripped the edge of the table. He took a deep breath before he walked forward, past Harry, who was now frozen in place, and paused only a second before walking again toward the door.

“Fuck you, Potter,” he whispered as he left.  
  
When Leon arrived again a few seconds later, he sighed very harshly at Harry.  
  
“I just passed Draco in the street, Jamie. Why are you still standing here?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Well, go _after him_ obviously! You were just angry, whatever you said.”  
  
“Leon,” he began. “Please, don’t. Not now. Can I borrow the brownie?”  
  
Leon scowled, but then nodded.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” he grumbled as he left Harry standing in the room.

* * *

 Draco was pissed off. He made a quick decision; he should have made it that morning when he’d noticed how off he felt. Amsterdam was ruining him. He’d worked so hard for the calm he had secured for his life. He needed to get out. Potter was not the friend of calm things. He Apparated to the shop and began to magically banish the extra things in his flat. He conjured an extra bed, tried to make it look sunny and welcoming. He’d have to spend more time working on it soon, but for now, it was enough. He went back to Amsterdam and contacted his ministry contacts. He set the paperwork in motion to move Narcissa Malfoy to his shop in Zandevoot. He needed to get out of the city, far away from his past. Far away from Harry Potter.


	14. Chapter 14

 

"Draco!" Harry exclaimed, genuinely surprised given how they had ended last time he'd seen Malfoy.

"Where the fuck is she, Potter? Do you know?" Malfoy looked terrified, wild, his shirt untucked, his wand inexplicably in his hand.

"What? Who? What's wrong,"

"I should have fucking listened to my instincts! We were fine until you came, Potter. Fine until you found us. We were doing fine."

"Draco, slow down. What's wrong?"

"My mother is missing. She walked out of the hospital yesterday morning and disappeared."

"Holy fuck," Harry whispered, as multiple gears clicked into place and his brain figured it out.

Because why did Narcissa have so much knowledge about Ambrose Palacky? Why had it been so easy for him to find the connection to Galloway, when everything else had been half truths and false leads? There were two possibilities, and Harry was gripped with the wet, cold knowledge that he knew exactly which one was true.

He ran around the interior of his flat while the door stood open and Malfoy clenched his fists and shook. He grabbed his wand, his cloak, his shoes.

Then, he grabbed Malfoy, saying clearly, "Draco, you can be angry with me later. I know exactly where your mother is and we need to leave now."

And without further hesitation, he Apparated them both on the spot.

* * *

The flat looked exactly the same as it had the other times he'd been here, which he filed away as 'utterly useless information'. He surveyed the scene from the street where they stood.

Nothing was out of place, nothing seemed odd. He pulled his wand to cast some detection spells, and was immediately distracted by Draco, who had gone deathly still at his side and was even paler than normal. In fact, he was so white that Harry got concerned. All his anger —which, truthfully, had never been about Malfoy being at Leon's — had turned to guilt and fear. He didn't know how to convey these things to Draco. He let Auror instincts take over instead.

"Draco, I probably shouldn't have brought you," he said gently. "I can go in there alone, don't worry. Do you want to go sit down somewhere?"

As though he knew how terrified he looked, Draco shifted his face into a firmly determined look that reminded Harry that he, too, had fought a war. His mouth was a thin line as he gripped his wand and squared his shoulders.

"Not leaving. Get on with it," Draco clipped. "I'll be quiet."

Harry ludicrously wanted to point out that he hadn't been complaining that Draco was loud, but he refrained and cast quickly. Finding nothing, he put a finger to his lip and moved forwards. The door was, of course, locked. He was shocked and very concerned when a simple Alohomora opened it.

Gently pushing the door on its hinges, he moved into the entrance of the flat and was faced with an eerie silence. The type of silence that was full and not at all silence. Someone had cast a muffling spell on the entire apartment. Harry thought for a moment about the implications of that, of the power required to keep a clean and full Muffliato going when not in the room.

He nodded, mostly to himself, but realised that of course, Malfoy was going to take that as a sign to move forward. Harry grabbed his arm and shook his head vehemently. He walked ahead again, and stared at the direction of the living room. He had been there; it was very open. Not the type of place you'd go if you were trying to hide something. He turned in the opposite direction, toward a swinging door.

"Kitchen," he mouthed, nodding. Draco nodded, and waited for Harry to lead the way.

It happened in an instant. One moment, he was standing, wand at the ready, aware of the fact that he needed to be prepared for whatever lay beyond this door. Draco was at his elbow, breathing in a heavy-but-trying-to-remain silent kind of way that was making Harry's hair stand on end and increasing his nervousness tenfold.

In the next moment, it was like he was swimming through mud. His limbs grew heavy, his head leaden, and every movement was a laboured endeavour. He watched in helpless horror as Draco tried to swing an arcing curse in the direction of the movement that had caused whatever spell he was currently under. His brain searched frantically, thinking unimpeded, trying to sort out exactly what he'd been attacked with; the symptoms didn't fit any spell he'd encountered before, and when he finally got his eyes to focus, he knew why.

Ernst Galloway stood, no longer looking haggard and old, but instead with hair slicked back and tied in a neat plait. His long midnight coloured robes opened on a waistcoat and well-tailored trousers. And far more importantly, he had a shiny metal wand trained on both Harry and Draco, and there was a large menacing grin on his face.

"Ah, Mr Potter," he said in an amicable tone. "At last. I was beginning to think I had overestimated you."

Harry couldn't respond, because speaking words would have required many hours of studious re-evaluation of how his mouth worked now. The grin grew larger.

"Ah ah ah, Mr Malfoy," Galloway said, turning a fraction of an inch toward Harry's right shoulder, where he could feel but not see movement from Draco. "You wouldn't want anyone to get hurt now, would you? I think I'll just take that, to be safe."

He shifted his silver wand slightly, and Harry felt that frazzled, panicked energy he'd felt around Palacky as Draco's wand flew violently from his hand to Galloway's.

"I'm being so rude," Galloway chuckled lightly to himself. "Won't you please sit down?"

Another flick of the wand, and Harry felt the weight of the previous spell leave him at the same time as his body hurled itself into a chair that had not been there a second ago. He grimaced as he hit the seat hard. His whole body felt tender, like he'd just run multiple marathons. His arms felt heavy again, useless at his sides. He heard Draco beside him gasp for breath, and watched as his body fell, seeming to be dragged by his left arm, stiffly to the floor. He writhed once in a painfully reminiscent contortion, and then he didn't move again.

Harry forced himself to use his focus carefully. For now, he could do nothing to help Draco. He had to hope that he was still alive, and figure out a way out of this spell. He looked at the kitchen for answers.

Only the room did not look like a kitchen. It more closely resembled an operating theatre from a horrid pantomime of days gone by. It made him think of Muggle fun houses, which he'd only been to once and which were definitely not fun.

The floor tile was shiny and gleaming, and the whole room smelt like antiseptic. The counters were white and covered in bizarre metal equipment whose purposes he didn't pause to question. The lights, bright and low hanging, were buzzing rather loudly now that he was paying attention. There was no furniture in the room except for a metal dentist's chair in the centre, reclined and occupied.

This was where Harry's observation stalled completely.

Strapped in that chair, with white blond hair streaked grey, face placid and pale, serenely unconscious, lay Narcissa Malfoy. Her arm was rested gently on the arm rest, and from it protruded multiple wires, measuring her pulse on a slowly beating monitor, and also one, distressingly bloodred tube, which was dripping slowly into a bag hung nearby. Without even needing to think about it much, Harry knew immediately that the blood was not flowing the in the correct direction.

"Galloway," he strained to say, catching the man's attention, which seemed to have wavered.

"Oh Mr Potter, I'm sorry," the man said, taking a step forward. "I am an old man. I distract easily. Where were we? Oh yes, we had barely begun. I suppose you have questions? Seeing as you've worked out how to speak around my little spell, I suppose we can lift it off your head. Do you like my laboratory? It's not the most convenient placement, I must admit. But these houses in this city, they have so many stairs. I'm not as spry as I used to be. I let the upstairs to a young couple with a baby. They are most pleasant."

Galloway walked over to Narcissa, fiddled with some dials on the beeping machine, and turned to face Harry and Draco again. Draco, he noted calmly, had stirred some out of the corner of his eyes. Galloway frowned, and went to cast another spell.

Harry interrupted desperately, "Questions."

"Ah, yes, fine," Galloway said, turning the wand on Harry instead. Bindings sprung forth, but his limbs felt normal again. He turned his neck gently, testing his movement. "What would you like to know?"

Harry stayed calm. He knew he had the upper hand right now, even if Galloway didn't. He had to play the long game, as stressful as that was with Draco half-conscious on the floor and Narcissa slowly bleeding out in front of him.

"They suspect you, you know. But not of this, not of torture."

"Torture?" Galloway laughed, so heartily that his head rolled back on his neck. "Dear boy, you are supposed to be the Chosen One. Please tell me you are not quite that dense."

Harry pretended to squirm uncomfortably, and waited in silence. He'd dealt with enough evil to know what he needed; he needed a villainous diatribe. It had been harder with Palacky, because the man had been so very stupid. Harry doubted he'd known enough words to get into a full out monologue. But Ernst Galloway was the perfect candidate; too smart for his own damned good and under the current belief that he had the upper hand.

Harry would have laughed had he not been trying to play the game.

"So," Harry said, letting a touch of fear colour his voice. "You are carrying on with Palacky's plan? And you knew me right away, I assume."

"Potter, you insult me," Galloway sputtered. "Palacky? That moron?! Can't believe you were fooled by that idiot. You'd think eventually, even an idiot would start to look for schemes and traps. Ambrose Palacky isn't the plan...not even the beginning of the plan. He wasn't even really an essential cog in the plan."

"And?"

"And yes, Mr. Potter. Of course I knew you. I knew much of you when you were in the papers, when you were only small. I haven't been in the Netherlands that long. I could only assume that the reason that Shacklebolt's star recruit had turned up with a terrible disguise was to investigate something. I knew you were here before Palacky knew who 'Jamie' even was," Galloway said, his sneer firmly back in place.

Potter grinned internally as his next question left his lips, "So what? You're going to finish the job Voldemort started?"

"Voldemort," Galloway grimaced, nose wrinkling in disgust. "You know, you just keep insisting on insulting me. When I am the one with the wand. I don't think I shall let that stand."

Before Harry had time to prepare himself mentally, his body went limp again, but this time, it was painful. His muscles screamed in terror, feeling like they were being rent from bone, and the sinking heaviness in his joints making him cry out against his will. Just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.

"Now, please," Galloway said, amicable tone returned. "Please keep a civil tongue. You are in my home, after all. Now, to address your last question. I, dear boy, am not Voldemort. Voldemort was regrettably short-sighted. Very power hungry. And his vision of a world required him to be in charge."

He paused, as though academically considering the problem.

He sighed. "He was stupid, really. Didn't realise the destruction of the imbalance of power between the strong and the weak could be far simpler than that. He saw that to create a new world order, he had to be in charge of it. But anyone knows the revolution requires more destruction than control."

Galloway turned again to look at Narcissa, considering her carefully before he faced Harry again. Harry, who was only barely paying attention. He was cataloguing, analysing again. He had succeeded in getting Galloway to talk, and since he already knew this crazy arsed theory, it felt safe to largely ignore the soliloquy.

"Do you know Potter what uncontrolled magical power looks like? Raw kinetic magical energy? I do. I've seen it, many times," Galloway almost sounded wistful.

Unfortunately, he had Harry's attention again. The feeling of the magic that Palacky had used echoed in his memory; he never wanted that feeling of sickening dizziness again. And apparently, Galloway wanted nothing more than to explain it to him.

"All it takes is the right wand in the hand of a squib. Can be most squibs, truthfully, with any level of magical power," Galloway paused, considering.

"Of course, if that squib also happens to feel slighted by his entire family and the magical community, all the more power to him. It is far easier to lead a thirsty horse to water, after all."

"What do you mean, 'the right wand'?" Harry said, hating himself for even asking.

"Well, that wand you hold in your possession — though I doubt right now, am I correct?" Galloway started pacing in front of Narcissa, back and forth across a creaky spot on the floor. It was very irritating. "No matter, the point is, that wand contains a very special core."

"You keep saying that, as though I know what you mean."

From the floor, he saw movement. He saw Draco sit up, wincing as he tried to put weight on his left arm.

"Blood, Jamie," Draco said, voice hoarse and quiet. "Pureblood blood. Look —"

Draco turned his head, which was enough of a point for Harry to see the most obvious thing he'd missed in a long, long while. The last machine, on the counter, looking comically like a scene from a children's science show, sat a distilling machine that ended in a copper cauldron, which emptied into long, cylindrical moulds. Flowing gently and thickly through the pipes attached was dark red liquid.

"Blood magic," Harry said faintly. "You're trying to use blood magic."

"No, no, NO, dear boy," Galloway said, shaking his head in disappointment. "I am successfully using blood magic. And that blood magic will be enough to remove the Ministry controls on magic. All people of magical origin will be free to harness their power."

"Jamie —" Draco said gently, indicating slightly at his mother, who, Harry had to admit, did not look good all of a sudden. Her face had turned ashen instead of just pale, and her face had a sheen about it that did not look like a fever.

"Isn't that sweet," Galloway simpered. "You have your little Pureblood pet call you by a nickname. Tell me, Potter, don't you think it's time? Don't you think all this Pureblood nonsense should finally do some good? They've kept their blood so pure. Toujours Pur, isn't that right, young Malfoy?"

Harry hadn't really found his window yet, but he mentally said fuck it, Gryffindor, as though that was going to help, and threw all his will into the _Relashio_ and felt a tiny jolt of glee when they sprang free. His wand was instantly in his hand (his wand, not that metal nonsense piece of evil. Ernst had been right on one thing. He was not carrying that damned thing around.)

He tried his best to fully bind Galloway, but he felt it when the spell didn't work. He tried sending an Expelliarmus instead, and frowned when the wand in Galloway's hand didn't budge. Luckily, he was still looking a little bit confused about what was happening, and Harry didn't know why. Until he looked down, and saw that Draco had once again passed out; his best guess was that Draco had tried to send a wandless Confundus, succeeded, but then passed out from the pain of whatever spell Galloway had used on him earlier.

It didn't matter. It had bought him enough time. He jolted forward, and wrenched the wand from the old man's hands. He threw it out of the swinging door, unsure why, but feeling like if it wasn't in the room, he'd be able to think more clearly. He tried the body bind again, and relaxed only slightly when the spell stuck this time. He pushed the frozen Galloway to the floor, and ran to Narcissa's side. Her breathing was regular, if a bit slow, but her pulse felt strong. He carefully disconnected the tubes from her arm and stopped the bleeding with a piece of her shirt.

Finally, he realised that he was going to need help. He sighed to himself; Draco was going to murder him when he brought the Ministry into this scene. And the thought almost made him laugh. What a thing to be thinking about, considering. He pulled up a hasty Patronus, shouted 'Fortuna Major' at the stag and moved to stand beside the unconscious body of Draco Malfoy as he awaited Dent's arrival. He knew it would be fast; Fortuna Major was the agreed upon distress call.

"Hey," he said, kneeling down carefully beside Draco. "Draco, wake up."

There was a fuzzy groggy blink, and the blond head shifted slowly.

"Safe?"

"You're safe, Draco. We're safe."

"Mother?" he whispered.

"Her too. Need a healer."

"No healer," Draco gasped with what seemed to be a new spout of energy. "No Mediwizard. Shop. Take to shop?"

Harry had literally no idea what Draco was on about, and also knew that he wasn't going to Apparate two relatively seriously injured people anywhere, so he chose to ignore Malfoy. A crack emanated from the street, and three wizards plus Dent came blazing into the room, full of Auror dramatics that made Harry sigh again. Full of hexes blazing, were the Aurors, after the suspect was secured.

Though, technically, he supposed, this time that was his fault. He probably should have called for backup before charging into Galloway's flat.

"Evander," Dent said, nodding solemnly. "Report."

"Galloway is in here," he said nodding toward the kitchen. "I need your team to secure the scene. I also need healers."

"Here," the third Auror said from behind Dent.

Dent shrugged. "Wasn't sure what the distress call led to."

Fighting the urge to comment on the fact that there'd been actual forethought from Dent, Harry simply nodded and led the healer to Narcissa. She was still unconscious, and at least Draco was awake. Meanwhile, he heard the other Aurors silence Galloway, who was still shouting obscenities and read him his rights. When he continued to resist being led outside, Dent sighed and knocked the old man out with a muttered spell.

"Anyone gives you a hard time about that," he said pointing to the Auror now holding the limp arms of Galloway aloft. "I'll take the heat. Couldn't stand that shouting any longer."

Harry grinned despite himself and turned back to the healer, who was muttering to Draco, nodding and looking at Harry.

"Says you got hit too?" The healer clarified.

"Yes but I'm f-"

"What spell," she interrupted, already standing up, wand out, ready to read his vitals.

"I-I dunno actually. Was really weird."

"Yes, that's just what every healer wants to hear after being told you're 'fine'. Right, so, she," the healer pointed to Narcissa, "has lost a lot of blood. I'm going to take her to the St Augustine with a Medi-port. You side-along him and meet us there. You're stable enough. He is not."

In typical healer fashion, she left little room for argument, and Harry ignored Draco's weak protests of 'no healer' and carefully lifted him to standing. He stumbled on his landing, dizzy himself and unprepared for the limpness in Malfoy's body. A healer rushed to his side, clearly having been warned of their arrival, and levitated Draco inside. He followed, still a little dazed and in pain.


	15. Chapter 15

Over the course of the next hour, he was jostled and poked, questioned by multiple Aurors multiple times, and had quite lost track of the Malfoys by the time Dent reappeared beside his hospital bed, where he was connected to an in drip 'as a precaution'.

"Narcissa Malfoy is awake. She's asking for you."

He nodded and got into the wheelchair Dent had brought with an exasperated sigh. He would never start enjoying the fuss made over injuries as an Auror, but the department was overly cautious; the lot of them did everything possible to avoid paperwork.

"Oh, thank goodness," Narcissa said in relief, seeing him at the door. "I didn't really believe them, that you were fine."

"Narcissa," he said as soothingly as possible, standing up and going to sit again in the chair by her bed. He took her hand, and felt immediately ridiculous. He'd have pulled away, but she gripped it tightly, and he let it rest.

"You must hate me, Harry," she said sadly.

"What, why? No,"

"Dear boy…" she said, falling off again.

"They said you lost a lot of blood. But they...they fixed it," he summarised weakly. He was still not feeling that well, to be honest, and the medical mumbo jumbo had gone over his head. "Draco is fine too. Just suffered the after effects of a curse. They healed him too. Said you can both go home. They're sorting out the paperwork now."

"I have to tell you why," she said balefully. "So you don't hate me."

Harry understood. In reality, he had many, many questions for Mrs Malfoy. But her skin was still a shade or two off. Her eyes were dim and her face looked drawn. He was sure he didn't need to know right now.

"I don't need to know now, Narcissa," he said, squeezing her hand. "Let's get you home."

"Not the other hospital," she said weakly.

"No," a medi-witch said, bustling into the room, carrying an intimidating looking clipboard. "To your son's flat. He's already signed the release. Mr Evander, you can go too."

Harry nodded.

"You are better than either of them. Can I release them to your care? I asked Mr...er, Dent, and he seemed to believe it would be fine. It's very irregular, of course, but I haven't time to get into a battle with the Ministry."

"We'll be fine," Harry said, trying to look healthier than he felt.

"No Apparating. Any of you, for at least three days. I've called you a cab."

"A cab?" Harry repeated, bemused at the thought of the Malfoy's in something so pedestrian. "Sure, sure. Cab."

Half an hour later, Harry was helping a very groggy Narcissa up the three flights of stairs that the car had dropped them in front of. He turned to find Draco leaning against the wall; mostly, the blond was hopped up on potions, and so far, it had led to mostly hilarity on the ride home. But right now, Harry was fading fast in his ability to be the caregiver in this situation.

"Draco," he sighed. "Draco! Wake up!"

Draco bolted upright, hitting his head slightly against the wall in the process. He eyed Harry and Narcissa, now halfway up the second staircase, in slight confusion.

"Bossy, bossy," Draco said, stomping his feet up the stairs. When he reached the spot where Harry stood, standing on the landing in front of the second floor, Draco glared comically at Harry and stuck out his tongue.

"Draco!" Narcissa gasped.

"Sorry, mother, but isn't Potter bossy?" Draco said petulantly. He pushed past them both and trudged up the last set of steps, pulling out a key and then staring at it determinedly.

"Generally they work better when you put them in a lock," Harry said with as much patience as he could muster. For whatever reason, Draco laughed at this, and simply held the key out to him. Harry sighed again, and opened the door.

"Cat!" Draco called into the open space.

Harry looked around in confusion. The flat was small and rather unadorned, but not in the same way that Harry's flat was small and unadorned. There was a large sunny bedroom at the back, with double doors stood open and revealing a large, cosy wrought iron bed, neatly made up with a grey duvet and a white throw. There was a tiny breakfast bar and a small fridge, and a kettle sat on top. It wasn't fancy, but it felt warm and used. There was a bookshelf stuffed full, and a small pile of old newspapers piled beside it, a large white chair that looked both well used and very tidy.

"Um...do you...do you have a cat?" Harry said to Draco, who was looking around wildly.

"No," Draco hissed at Harry. "Why would I have a cat, I don't live here."

"Right. Um, yes you do?"

"I live in Zandvoort, Potter. Shut up."

"Sure. Sorry, Draco. Here, come sit down. I'm going to put your mum in the bed, okay? I'll get you some water in a moment."

"Stop telling me what to do, Potter," Draco said viciously, even as he sat down anyway. Harry just shook his head, and helped Narcissa the rest of the way into the bedroom, nestling the covers over her. She seemed very tired, but as he stood to leave, she gripped his arm.

"Ask your questions, Jamie dear. I won't sleep unless you do," Narcissa implored.

"It's really not-"

"Jamie-" Narcissa said, her urgent and imploring tone somewhat lacking.

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I have most of it figured out," he said. "You met him because of the hospital, right? Because he used to contract for them. I found that out months ago. I was too distracted by Palacky to think much of it, which is my own mistake. But Narcissa...how long…"

"How long?"

"I've had my wand for...And Palacky…"

Narcissa nodded gently. She laid back on the pillow, and wouldn't meet his eye.

"You know, I am a very weak woman. Ah, don't interrupt, dear, I haven't the energy. I know you'll disagree, because you really are far too forgiving of everyone. But truly, I have a weakness...a weakness for men who listen to me. It's silly, really, since I'm quite perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Still, it's not the first time that I've been taken in by a man who just listened to me. Read into that what you will, Mr Potter. It isn't the point."

Narcissa's hands were worrying the sheets in front of her, but she hadn't looked back up.

"Ernst Galloway was quite the powerhouse in my day. Before Ollivander had a monopoly on Diagon, that is. There was competition when I was young, for where you got your wand. It wasn't anything bad that happened, of course. Ollivander was just so good, and more efficient, and of course — innovative. The killing curse to men set in their ways. When Galloway's left the street, no one really questioned it. But he's still...respected. Revered. And he was visiting me. And it does get rather lonely, in that place, with all the crazy witches." Narcissa smiled ruefully, and met Harry's eye briefly to make sure he saw the humour.

He did not smile back.

"At first, he said it was just research interest. Some genealogy project. I'd say he was charming, but...that's not it, not precisely. You see, he was mostly just there. I tried to pull back, right around the time you showed up at the hospital. He was starting to frighten me."

Harry felt his eyes go wide. Narcissa had been in danger the entire time he had been visiting her. How could he have been so stupid to have missed it?

"And then, I started losing time again. Just small chunks. There were whole days when I felt just as I had after the war. The healers couldn't figure it out. I know now, of course...or at least, I am pretty sure...he'd been taking more and more blood, then obliviating me. That's why I was weak and didn't know why."

"Narcissa," Harry said, closing his eyes gently, feeling overwhelmingly exhausted now. "Oh, Narcissa."

"So, in answer to your question, Harry. Months. Months and months. He took me from the hospital yesterday. He was very calm about the whole thing. I didn't realise until we'd already Apparated that he was using Imperio. It's been a long time since — anyway. That's it, I think, for tonight. Can you check on Draco before —"

"Yes, of course. Narcissa, you are safe. I won't — you won't —"

"Harry dear, it is really not your job to protect everyone, you do know that right? You can't. You simply can't."

He wanted to say more, but Narcissa's eyes had closed, her breathing eased. He lifted himself gently from the bed and went back out the door.

He found Draco in a pile of blankets and cushions on the floor beside his chair.

"Draco," he said calmly, trying to avoid getting yelled at again.

He lifted the man's arms, to much protesting and sat him upright. Fuzzy, unfocused grey eyes glared back up at him. Suddenly, they softened, and even in his exhausted state, the softness threw Harry for a loop.

"Your eyes are almost gold, you know," Draco said, leaning much too close for decorum to allow.

"Let's get you to bed, Draco. Come on. I'll extend the chair."

"Quite cosy down here, actually. Room for you too. You look like shit, Potter."

Harry laughed ridiculously, "Yeah, well…"

He involuntarily reached forward and tugged on a strand of Draco's too-short-for-Malfoy hair. The other man grinned a lazy grin and shivered.

"You don't look so great yourself," Harry breathed. "You really need to get some rest. The healer said."

Just as suddenly as the softness had appeared in Draco's eyes, however, the flash of anger had replaced it, and Harry sighed when he remembered that Draco was actually high on all the pain potions the healers had given him.

"What's wrong now?"

"Where the fuck are we, Potter? I demand you take me to my potions lab. Immediately. I need to brew up a Blood Replenishing Potion for mother right now."

"Draco, your potions lab is in Zandvoort, and neither of us can Apparate. They gave her a potion at the —"

"Bollocks, that shit is not a potion. Its shelf-stable garbage they keep for way longer than they should. I demand you take me, Potter. I'll hex you."

"You won't," Harry said, back to being quite amused at Draco's very eleven-year-old-self tone. "Because you don't have a wand. Because I have your wand...again."

He couldn't help himself. Riling up a potion-drunk Draco was quite a lot of fun.

"Why, you insolent little…." but Draco didn't finish his sentence. He'd gotten distracted again, leaning into the arm that Harry was still using to hold him up in his nest on the floor. "You know, your hair —"

"Is ridiculous. I know. Draco," Harry sighed.

"Hey," Draco interrupted, his voice squishy and wispy all of a sudden. "Hey, Jamie."

Harry's eyes snapped back into sharp contrast. He took a step back from his crouch and dropped Draco's arm. Draco looked forlorn.

"Please, take me to Zandvoort," Draco said, his voice horribly close to pleading.

"Draco, no. You need to go to sleep. It's half four in the morning. Your mother is in your bed. You are safe. Please, just go to sleep."

Harry stood up, decided he was too tired to extend the chair, and curled into it instead, putting his head against the back and dropping his eyelids closed.

"Potter," Draco said from above him, voice a familiar rage. "If you are going to be bloody useless, you should just go."

"Draco, please just —"

"I'm serious. Out. This is my...er, home."

Harry looked up at Draco and lifted his head, "I'm not leaving, you bloody great buffoon. You have about fifteen potions severely impacting your judgement right now, and your mother needs guarding. Go to fucking sleep. I'll be gone before you even remember I'm here."

Draco looked at him for a moment longer in anger, then deflated, shrugged, and turned on his heel. He nestled himself back into the pile of cushions, looking hilariously like a puppy, and was asleep without another word. Harry chuffed at the comedy of his entire life, before falling into a dead faint himself.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourself for smut! Ready? Let's go!

He woke up the next day at a time that was definitely not morning, in a nest on the floor of his living room. His bedroom door stood open, and his mother was sleeping soundly. The cut on her eyebrow didn't look so serious in the light of day, and she looked as unperturbed as ever. Her pallor was back to normal, and she didn't look as close to death as the night before. He had no recollection of how he had gotten here, or where the pile of blankets and pillows had appeared from.

He thought back to the previous day, and snippets flooded his memory. He kept his body still as he thought about the pain that had shot through his arm as he'd been paralysed by the strange metal wand. He thought about trying to get to his mother anyway, and falling flat on the ground.

And then he thought about Jamie, running in with his stupid blond hair and his lithe body and his heroics. He waited for the anger he'd always felt about Harry Potter's heroism to surface. It didn't come; the man who had saved them last night was not the child he'd once hated. He was _Jamie_.

And he was _lovely_.

No matter how he spun it, Draco was realising now that Leon was right. Leon had been fucking right for far longer than he cared to admit.

"Well, shit," he muttered to himself, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He allowed the sensation to wash over him as he let his head stabilise. He catalogued the aches and pains he still felt, but they were very slight, just a tug on the corner of the muscle in the arm where he'd been dragged down by the old wizard's magic, under the Dark Mark, which was an odd thing to notice. He was, for all intents and purposes, fine.

"Draco," Narcissa called from the next room.

"Here mother," he called back.

"Yes. I gathered by your rather loud grumblings and mutterings."

"Sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, and before you ask, I am fine. I just have one question."

"Yes?"

"Why are you still here?"

"What?"

"Draco, enough. Go."

He thought for one more minute, but all it took was for him to look over at the easy chair beside his nest and see a discarded blanket thrown there. He scrambled out of his bed, getting tangled many times in the blankets in the process, and simultaneously trying to cast wards around his bedroom. He ran down to the vestibule of his building and Apparated before he lost his nerve.

Draco stood at the door to the flat for longer than was strictly advisable. He paced back and forth for at least five minutes, trying to talk himself out of this whole thing. It was, after all, a terrible idea.

But, against his better judgement, he raised his hand and knocked sharply. It took the man, who he knew was home, an interminable amount of time to answer. Draco almost left twice more.

Suddenly sandy hair stood behind the open door, grinning a high octane grin that glued him to the spot. There was nothing to be done for it. He was screwed.

"Draco," Harry froze, smile dropping when he realised who it was, worry edging into his tone "Is everything okay? Is Narcissa —"

"Jamie," Draco said, shaking his head at the automatic use of the pseudonym. "Erm, no, she's fine. Everything is...fine."

"Come on in, then," Harry smiled again, pulling the door open further and walking back inside. "What's up?"

"I was going to...thank you, but," Draco scrubbed the back of his neck. "You left."

Harry grinned a strange, lopsided grin, almost a laugh, before replying, "You told me to leave."

"Well…"

He did remember that now actually. He'd been mad that no one would take them to Zandvoort, where he had the right medicine for his mother, but was still aware that he should not be anywhere. He vaguely realised he shouldn't have Apparated now. He also remembered being embarrassingly forthright and not in control of his inane babbling. He felt his face grow hot. He really should not be standing here right now.

"Still," he said lamely. "You left."

"Yes, well," Harry said, sounding vaguely annoyed, but not really addressing anything specific or getting angry. "That's your trick, so I'm not surprised you're annoyed. I won't steal your signature move ever again, don't worry Malfoy. By the way, pretty sure you can stop calling me 'Jamie' for good now. You just witnessed the actual end to my case."

"Um," Draco started again, kicking himself for his stupidity. "Jamie."

Harry wasn't facing him, he was standing still now in the kitchen area of the tiny flat, not unhappy but not happy, and he looked ridiculous, avoiding Draco's eyes in battered jeans and a torn sweatshirt with a rip up the side, and hair not brushed, and looking exhausted and slightly battered.

"Draco," Harry deadpanned, presumably because Draco had not continued talking.

Finally, Draco was out of small talk. He was out of excuses, and walls, and amendments. He was out of ideas on how to make himself stop.

"Jamie, I need to you to not read too much into this," Draco muttered.

Harry turned around to look at Draco, mouth open to speak. But he didn't get anything else out before his body was up against Draco's chest, and his mouth was being slowly, meticulously, painfully devoured. He had no coherent protest available to him as Draco gently backed them into a wall, hands reaching up to card through his hair. His eyes slid closed in confused bliss, and he was vaguely aware of his own hands reaching just as slowly around Draco's waist, of his thumbs seeking purchase under a very rumpled shirt.

Harry hadn't been kissed in a very long time, and it wasn't taking too much to forget who was doing the kissing, to not ask what the fuck or back away, though both likely would have been wiser choices than leaning into the kiss and participating fully.

In the back of his mind, in the little niggling worm of his brain that had stopped him from sleeping soundly for weeks, Harry knew that he wasn't really surprised, per se. Not by the kiss itself. A little by the why, and maybe the how, but not the what, if he were honest. Yet, this was not what he'd been expecting.

In that part of his brain, if he allowed it to surface, his fantasy of Draco in this moment was rough and demanding. He'd imagined it all, truthfully; nails scraping and roughly bitten kisses, push and pull, near violent abandon. Harry had imagined Draco in sex the way Draco was in everything else; quick to anger, exacting and controlling.

This was definitely not that. Draco's hands were gentle, massaging the back of his neck and scalp with care. His lips were soft, hungry, but almost questioning. His breath was low and ragged, and his heart where it pressed against Harry's chest was beating in a terrified, irregular pattern.

He was afraid. Harry could feel it.

And he knew what that felt like, because he was afraid too, but not for the same reasons. He'd not really allowed himself to imagine this in the light of day, to picture himself against a wall being snogged by Draco Malfoy. Now that it had happened, however, he was utterly terrified that it was somehow going to end as quickly as it began.

He inhaled a quick short breath against Draco's mouth and drew the other man even closer. He allowed his tongue to linger gently against Draco's teeth. He didn't really know what he was doing, it was true; his experience was minimal at best. But, Merlin be damned, he was Harry Potter. He would figure it out.

He suspected he hadn't done that badly because Draco's breath hitched again, sounding almost like he was in pain, and yet snuggling in until his whole body had pinned Harry down, his arms stretching around his neck and holding on in desperation. The breath made Harry pause, open his eyes. Which was good, because the face behind these kisses was screwed up in pain, slightly wet. He ripped his mouth away, his whole body crying out in protest.

"Draco," he whispered, "Hey, Draco. It's okay."

He moved one hand up to cradle Draco's neck, settling the other man's head into his shoulder, and feeling rather than hearing a gentle sob, a shudder of emotion.

"I —" Draco tried. "I — wasn't prepared. To see her in danger. Not again."

"Hey," Harry soothed. "Hey, don't worry, she's safe. He's contained now. Shh."

Draco didn't move his head, but he went deadly still.

"She's safe because of you."

"She was in danger because of me, too," Harry countered, not sure why his brain was trying to stop Draco's gratitude when it had so clearly led to this. "It's not worth thinking about."

"Thank you," Draco muttered against his neck, lips shifting to place a soft kiss there. "Thank you."

Harry pulled back a bit to see Draco's eyes. He found them drier than a moment ago, found them crystalline and perfect, and full of deep seeded fear. He didn't know what Draco needed, so he did what he knew Draco wanted.

He kissed him again, pulling them both upright as he took control. As nice as soft, swelling kisses were, they weren't what Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were built for.

Harry dug his heels into the floor and used all his strength to back Draco up even more, walking them backwards quickly and purposefully. He backed up into the flat and all the way against the bed that still lived in his living room.

"What are we doing," Draco muttered, not really asking a question.

"Don't chicken out on me now, Malfoy," Harry ground out. "You started this whole mess."

"I'm in emotional turmoil," Draco said, a small daft smile pasted on his face as Harry groped unsuccessfully at his shirt, trying to drag it off him. "You're taking advantage."

"You'd better fucking believe I am," Harry threw back at him, finally finding the hem of the shirt he now realised Draco had likely slept in.

"Is there a bed in your living room?" Draco gasped, as if only just noticing that he was half naked.

"Draco," Harry groaned, pulling his own shirt over his head as he shoved a knee between Draco's legs to back him further, finding heat and hardness that made his own body twitch with need.

"What?" Draco's face was still amused, but his voice gave him away, breathy but somehow also husky. The sound went straight to Harry's cock.

"Do shut up," Harry said, before helping Draco with the task and reattaching their mouths in a completely new way.

Harry let his imagination run wild now. He let his mouth take charge; this kiss was the one he'd been picturing, late at night or in the shower, determined not to let Malfoy's actual face formulate. The reality was much better. He bit Draco's lip as he pushed him down onto the bed, and Draco finally lost the pretence of humour as he hungrily grabbed Harry's shoulders. Still, trousered legs were suddenly wrapped around his body, and the noise that Harry let out when their hardness collided was inhuman and completely new to him.

"Off," Draco said, still kissing him.

Harry tugged the loose fitting trousers slung over Draco down, freeing the pants-free cock beneath and allowing it to spring to attention, waiting for Harry to continue his brave quest.

Draco chuckled. "Not what I meant."

He worked the button of Harry's own trousers free, and Harry found enough to coherence to help him shift his clothes to the floor.

He had thought that 'naked' was exactly what he wanted in this moment, with Draco's mouth pressed into his neck making very delicious noises. But the second his legs were exposed to the air in his apartment, suddenly freezing, he felt panic and terror well up in him.

He had no idea what he was doing. The extent of his sexual experiences had been fooling around with Ginny the summer after the rebuild. The fooling around had been nice, but never more than nice. And had never contained this much exposed skin. Frankly, he'd never really been this turned on either, with an erection that was nearly painful and the inability to catch a breath or focus. He felt ridiculous for suddenly being afraid, and he laughed in a way that immediately embarrassed him because it made Draco pull back and laugh at him.

"Hey," Draco said, in a voice Harry had never heard before, one full of emotion and bashful uncertainty. "Relax. Don't have to do anything you don't wanna."

It was enough. Hearing Draco speak so informally, in that voice. It was enough. He surged forward. He didn't know what he was doing, he didn't know what he was ready for, but he was hardly able to give up now. He pressed his body back against Draco, wrapping his arms firmly around his thighs, which were still wrapped tightly around his own waist. In doing so, he discovered the magnificent sensation of erection hitting erection, not to mention the glorious impact that the friction had on the sounds coming from the man beneath him. There was nothing even remotely like a wank here, nothing similar to that feeling; the laboured breath from above him shifted his hair as he attached his mouth to a strangely hard and red nipple. On instinct, he sucked, and was rewarded with an even more guttural gasp as Draco met his rhythm.

"So, so bossy," Draco rasped out. "I think I should take it from here, though."

It was not a question. Harry wasn't sure how he ended up on his back, legs dangling at an odd angle off the bed. Not that he spent much time thinking about it, as he heard Draco mutter a few spells while he held Harry's hips almost painfully.

His knees were suddenly dragged up over Draco's shoulders, and he was incoherent instantly as Draco's tongue, which had done such brilliant things to his mouth, proved how useful it truly was. The entirely new sensation of someone licking along the line of his arse was both bizarre and instantly the best thing ever. He arched into the touch, possibly pushing back against Draco's face, which he felt like was probably bad etiquette. Draco, however, chuckled and patted Harry's hips in a gentle tease.

"Yeah, gonna need that explored further at some point," he said, lifting his head and looking at Harry, voice quavering and hoarse, "But I'm pretty sure you aren't quite ready for that."

Harry may have whimpered. He may have also lost the ability to care, since Draco immediately moved that wonderful tongue to the tip of his now very interested cock. Arching into Draco now seemed a welcome action; Draco gave a very lovely moan again when Harry pushed his own cock further into his mouth, tongue flat against the head, pushing back his foreskin. For countless minutes, Harry could think of nothing as Draco worked him further and further into a state of frenzy, his hand following his mouth at a fervent pace. His breathing became more and more erratic, his hands now tightly holding Draco's hair.

He felt himself become more uncontrollably vocal, a fact that would shock him later when he thought about it.

"Don't," Draco's shaky voice warned. "Don't you dare fucking come, Potter."

"Nnngh," Harry replied in response to the loss of Draco's mouth.

"Eloquent, as always. But, I promise, you will not come. Because I have a plan." Draco was whispering now, because he had moved his way up Harry's body, his head back in kissing position, which Harry was pretty sure he wanted to find off-putting and simply was not.

"I'm going to ride you," Draco whispered into Harry's ear.

Draco, thankfully, wasted no time. Moments later, Harry was engulfed by slick, tight heat, and he forgot for a moment who he was, where he was, what he was. Draco's promise of 'riding' was a lofty goal, to be sure. In reality, he only got a few thrusts in before Harry was all but screaming through the orgasm to end all orgasms.

Minutes later, when he returned to his own body, Harry felt cold, sticky wetness on his chest, and was pleased to note that Draco had managed to come too. Some distant part of his brain had been worried about that. Draco was at his side, still breathing hard, eyelids heavy, limbs languid. Harry pulled a blanket over them both with his last remaining energy and promptly passed out.

When he woke up, he was pretty sure not much time had passed, but Draco was looking at him funny, as though he was dreading what happened now. Which was fair, really. This whole thing had not been an excellent plan. Still, Harry couldn't help the lazy, satiated smile that hit his face at Draco's general dishevelment. Mere months earlier, the sight of Draco in trainers had seemed out of place; now, he was lying in Harry's bed, covered in come. It would have been hilarious if Harry had any energy for humour. Draco frowned at the grin.

"That was rather...sudden," Harry said, trying for humour anyway.

"Feels like it wasn't," Draco said, brow furrowing further. "If you think about it."

"I guess...um...well," Harry said, thinking of his conversation with Narcissa, and feeling the grin sneak back onto his face. He opted not to tell Draco that his mother had been his hint at something more than camaraderie between them.

"Why are you here?" Draco said suddenly.

"What? Please tell me you remember —" Harry started, confusion and panic seeping through his post-sex haze.

"No," Draco said, face transforming into a sudden laugh that made Harry's heart relocate to his knees. "I didn't mean — Merlin, Potter."

It took a moment for Draco to stop laughing, and soon, Harry was grinning and almost laughing too despite himself. Draco Malfoy laughing was glorious. It changed everything about him, right down to the curve of his stomach, the pitch of his hip. He stored this information away for later.

"I meant," Draco tried again. "Why are you home? Didn't you have a big case to finish up? Thought you'd be busy."

Harry smirked, forcing himself not to reach out and smooth down Draco's hair. He felt like that might be too...just too much.

"What?" Draco said warily.

"It's my birthday."

Draco's face shot into complete, abject horror, and it made Harry laugh hysterically; he'd predicted this reaction to a tee. Never mind that the real reason was less birthday related and more 'you were attacked by an evil maniac, we can do paperwork tomorrow'.

"No, it is fucking not," Draco said in a strange, high-pitched voice.

"You know it is, if you think about it," Harry said, still laughing.

"I refuse to believe that," Draco moaned. "I did not give Harry Potter fucking birthday sex."

"Erm?"

"Uuuughhh," Draco groaned. "You know, I really hate you."

"You don't though," Harry smirked again, this time throwing caution to the wind and carding a hand through Draco's hair. The other man jolted, but didn't back away, so Harry didn't stop.

"Fuck you. Happy birthday. I'm going to take a shower," Draco said, moving his head away softly, ripping the blanket off his body and throwing himself out of the bed. He left Harry behind to doze again, a laughing smile pasted on his face. He opted not to tell Draco that he'd technically given him birthday _cherry-popping_ sex. At least not right now. He was pretty sure he'd be murdered if he did.

There was no way he was being murdered before they got to do all of that at least one more time.


	17. Chapter 17

_Three Months Later_

Harry awoke at an indeterminate time, knowing that it was too early to get up but unwilling to turn to his clock to find out how early. The tiny bed seemed huge and empty, but the spot beside him was warm. His fuzzy brain fought for him to feel alarmed, but he didn't have time to reach full panic because suddenly, there was a flush and the not-at-all-silent padding of an entirely naked, entirely dishevelled blonde, whose eyes were mostly closed.

"I am still asleep," he grumbled, seeing the movement of Harry through a single half-closed eye. "I just had to pee. Do not do something ghastly like speak to me."

Draco launched himself bodily back into the bed, facing away from Harry. He burrowed himself back into covers and stretched like a cat once before settling his head. He did, in fact, seem to still be asleep. Harry just grinned a silent grin and wrapped himself around the back of Draco's sleeping form. It amazed him how well they just fit together. Even like this, with Harry's shorter form curled around Draco's tall frame. With legs entwined, the curve of spine against the curve of belly, intimate and yet completely non-sexual. He barely had to shift to feel like every inch of his skin was buzzing with the connection. They made no sense, and yet here, they just fit.

Like the two puzzle pieces that always get lost, the ones with the jagged edges and the bits sticking out at odd angles. They were the two you needed to finish everything, but they always felt hard to place in the wider scene until you figured out what direction they both needed to go. That was this. That was them.

They had been doing this, existing in the fuzzy non-descript softened that was regular sex and not dating for three months, give or take a few weeks. Not much about the rest of their lives had changed. Well, except that Draco was technically living outside the city again, appearing randomly at Harry's door or at the hospital. And Harry was regularly having to jump back to England for meetings and interviews. But no one questioned the random glee on both their faces. Largely, Harry suspected, because the people who would have cared enough to ask—really just Narcissa and Leon—already knew exactly what was going on.

Meanwhile, Harry grew steadily happier. Steadily less shocked when Draco came back again. Steadily more confident in their bedroom adventures. Steadily, he was falling for a man who had no interest in talking about their weird friendship, but who was clingy and brilliant and moody and awful.

He wasn't even remotely surprised or uncomfortable when Draco sleepily moved Harry's hand from where it rested on his hip, interlaced their fingers, and dragged Harry's arm into an even tighter embrace, snuggling his head into Harry's neck and sighing contentedly. He was, after all, content too. Here, pressed into the back of his...Well, his Draco.

It didn't make any sense to dwell on the unquantifiable nature of their connection. He certainly couldn't explain it out loud in the light of day. He figured Draco would be hard pressed to define them either. Yet, in this twilight time, in these dark moments where words and glances were beyond them, it hardly mattered. Instead, it just made more sense than anything Harry had ever had done before, and he could just be at ease. He could not make himself not care that one day, it was, in fact, going to matter that they didn't know what they were doing, that they lived in a cobbled together fake reality, where no one knew them or that they were together.

One day soon, actually.

The parchment still lay on the nightstand in a bedroom that had just been returned to its original purpose (at the insistence of one very persnickety posh wanker). It was just within Draco's reach, although he had not noticed it and had not reached for it. Harry wasn't sure whether or not he had left it there in the hopes that Draco would find it and force them to fight about it, but either way, that had not happened. Course, they'd been a bit distracted when they'd first entered the room the previous night

The parchment bore no seal; it didn't look official, and that made it so much more honest and dangerous. It was from Dent, the short notice. His summons. Details of his final duties in the Netherlands. His call to return to England. First for the trial, then for his reassignment. And he had no place to put the emotions surrounding that very small note. So he put them forcefully on the nightstand, beside his haphazardly thrown glasses and a well-meaning note, and closed his eyes. He slept, curled for a few more hours into a sleeping, woodsy smelling head.

* * *

 

The morning dawned dark and grey, with barely a shift in the light from when he had woken in the wee hours. There was no hiding in sleep anymore. Draco was banging around the kitchen, grumpy for no reason, making tea. Harry had wandered out of the bedroom and was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to start a conversation that was doomed before it even began.

"Why on earth haven't you a single proper cup in this blasted kitchen of yours, Potter?"

"What? Oh, I...I mean no one else ever has tea here. Draco —"

Draco didn't stop moving, turning the kettle on the stove again, as though believing that it would boil faster.

"Never mind, I'll buy one today. A proper sized one. With stripes on it."

"Okay. Draco, I —"

"Potter, you have been trying to talk to me about Dent's note for at least twenty minutes, and I have been determinedly avoiding the conversation. If you don't stop until I have at _least half_ of this cup of tea in me, I swear I will hex you into oblivion and the conversation will be moot."

Harry looked down at his hands and muttered his assent, and Draco settled into the table across from him. Harry squirmed and shifted uneasily, but forced himself not to talk. Finally, Draco put down his mug and sighed.

"So," he said. "You have to go back to England. Which is, obviously, fine. Not exactly surprising, is it? You arrested your suspect, you concluded your case. Now you don't have to be in the Netherlands anymore. You must be excited, no? You can go back to your life."

"Draco —"

"I mean, really, it's terrible timing since you're heading straight into London winter, but no matter. Maybe you miss that too, for all I know."

"Draco, just let me —"

"Harry," Draco said quietly. It forced Harry to pause, the rare slip-up, using his real first name. "Please, don't. We both knew this was going to be how this ended. It's why I never entertained the whole 'definitions' conversation. Thanks, though. For the past few months. It's made things less…exhaustingly dull."

Harry looked at Draco carefully. He watched the waffling emotions flicker beneath complicated eyes, watched fear and hate and self-loathing all filter behind feigned ease. Draco wasn't comfortable right now; Harry could tell just by how he was sitting, the set of his shoulders.

He began to truly question when he had started cataloguing all of Draco's muscles, started to learn his every eye twitch. It can't have been that long ago, but suddenly it felt like years, and he knew for certain how he felt. It was the first time he had allowed the thoughts in his brain to enter daylight hours. And typically, the thoughts made him uncomfortable. So he let them spill out his mouth; not because that made it better, but because he simply had never learned not to voice everything he thought.

"I'm trying to tell you I'm not going," Harry half-shouted.

Draco's head suddenly snapped up, and he met Harry's eye for the first time that morning.

"What? Don't be ridiculous. Of course you are."

"I'm not. I don't want to go back to England, not right now. And I'm resigning from the service."

"Potter, what the hell are you on about?" Draco said, sounding tired. "Shut up."

"Nope, you shut up. I'm not going back, I'm resigning, and I think you and I should have a conversation."

"But…why?"

"Honestly? Buggered if I know. Except, against all odds, I seem to like you. Trust me, I'm as surprised as you are. But the point is, England is just full of…well, the past, truthfully. I don't think it's home anymore. If I resign, I can tell my family...er, the Weasleys I mean...where I am. And then I stay here. With you, for a while, if you'll let me," Harry paused. He forced his ever speaking brain to just be quiet a moment. He knew that Draco needed a moment.

Draco was reticent, in all things; even just ordering food in a restaurant took ages. He was slow to process, and even slower to speak his mind. It wasn't something Harry had been expecting since School Malfoy had always been quick to fight, and School Potter had more often than not been on the lashing end of his cruel words. But that person and this person did not align. Harry was very happy to just wait. He could handle the Malfoy silence because he knew it was born out of careful consideration and calculated thought, skills which he himself did not possess. The patience that Draco Malfoy unleashed in him was perhaps the most surprising thing of all.

He waited silently across the table, satisfied enough now to drink his rapidly cooling tea; just a hint of milk and way more sugar than was decorous, a thing that annoyed Draco to no end, even if he did make it perfectly anyway, every time.

Finally, Draco cleared his throat. Harry looked up.

"You're staying," he said. "You're resigning. You want to…be a thing."

"Summarised beautifully, yes. Exceeds expectations, at the very least."

"I can't pretend I understand. But. If you are staying, I don't want to…stop."

"Okay."

"Is it?"

"Apparently. I mean, I have been saying that for the past fifteen minutes in various forms. Do you think it's okay?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Well, okay," Harry finally allowed himself to grin, just a little. "I'll owl Dent. I should probably tell him sooner rather than later. Go get dressed though, and we'll go buy you a proper cup. The sun is trying desperately to come out, we should encourage it by going to the _markt_."

Draco's nose crinkled, and Harry laughed. His accent was a constant source of displeasure to the still overly proper, ridiculous posh side of Malfoy.

Draco sighed, knowing Harry was laughing at him, "You know, if you are staying, we are going to have to work on your Dutch."

"People have tried, _Meneer_ Malfoy. They have failed."

Draco stood up, and leant over Harry as he left the kitchen, whispering, "I think you'll find my teaching methods a bit more…effective."

He kissed the shell of Harry's ear, making him shudder, and then wandered away with a very un-Malfoy like chuckle on his lips.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the flurry of updates. Only two more chapters, and since they're both finished, I'd rather let the boys finish their story than string you along ;)

Harry Potter, living as Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy, living as Draco Malfoy. There was no precedent for this relationship, and the papers would have had a field day.

Except the papers didn't have a field day, because they never found out. At least, the English ones didn't; the Dutch papers hardly cared if a quiet city man started seeing a young shop owner from Zandvoort.

Shortly after Harry confused Dent, who released him from his position nonetheless, Draco moved back to his potions shop in order to shut it down; his few regular customers were appeased with a simple mail order service he set up. It shocked Harry to watch Draco display business acumen, taking only two weeks to set up a shop in Wierdenweg, the magical quarter that was indeed in Galloway's neighbourhood. For the first month or so, people remained wary of the new shop. Shops owned by strangers were not well received, in general, but once people started to get a hold of his potions through free samples or deep discount, Draco Malfoy suddenly became indispensable to the witches and wizards of Amsterdam.

The first year of Harry and Draco's relationship was rather unremarkable. There were moments that Harry remembered very well, such as teasing Draco by dying his hair bright magenta with a home dye kit. Confused at first, Draco had reacted forcefully; Harry had been dragged bodily, first to bed, then to the barber. When he left an hour later, he had next to no hair and was very angry. He hadn't spoken to Draco for hours, until, laughing, Draco had sent a very painful spell at his head that made his hair grow back in it's original colour. Dark and floppy, Draco's laugh had died on his mouth as he stared at Harry.

"You…" he'd said quietly. "You don't look like Jamie any more."

"I was never _actually_ someone else, you know," Harry had replied, residual annoyance colouring his tone.

Draco had pulled that one-eighty of emotion that was likely going to throw Harry off forever, and laughed.

"I know," he'd said, kissing Harry deeply. "It's a good thing that that dreadful blond is gone. Just surprised me, is all."

* * *

 

Eighteen months in, Harry arrived at Draco's flat with a sad smile.

"What's the matter?" Draco said carefully.

"Nothing, it's just...I just got back from the hospital. Narcissa is…" Harry sighed.

"I know," Draco said, heart full at Harry's concern and embarrassed by the feeling at the same time. "She isn't doing well. But I've got an idea."

They moved Narcissa the very next day; they tucked her into a bedroom of Draco's flat above the shop and reintroduced her to the magical world, which was difficult since she refused to carry her wand. Still, she delightedly introduced herself to every shop keeper, not hiding her name and garnering only a few distrustful glances. She bought three bright covered romance novels, a packet of licorice wands, and demanded that Harry and Draco leave her in the park with a tankard of butterbeer. For whatever reason, Draco wasn't all that worried about doing just that. For a week, Harry was shocked a tiny bit every time Narcissa came back to the flat of her own accord. Finally, Draco chuckled.

"Harry," he said. "She's not crazy. She used to run a very large household all on her own. It's not a miracle when she remembers her own address."

"I know...but I just…" Harry started. "I worry about her."

"Why?"

"Dunno...she's...um," Harry sighed. He hated emotions and words and feeling vulnerable and judged. Draco was very good at making him feel, and he loved and hated it in equal measure. He mumbled under his breath.

"Sorry, what?" Draco demanded, full of amused indignation. "Because it sounded vaguely like you said you _love_ my mother."

In his embarrassment, Harry got defensive, "Yeah, well, what of it?"

Draco's happiness buzzed so loudly out of his pores that Harry could feel it even before he was pushed down into a bed.

The three of them lived in a happy family of sorts. Busy and living in a bright and exciting city. Harry finally allowed Leon to put him into a gallery show, using his pseudonym and displaying just six photos. All six sold for a tidy sum, and he was suddenly under the very odd position of being in demand for something other than the scar on his forehead. He was begrudgingly proud of himself, and he invested in a larger flat with a proper studio that he only very occasionally actually slept in.

Despite his happiness, there was the other side of things, the part where Harry came back dark and distressed from trips overseas, taken only when big things happened, by scheduled portkey now with luggage and planning. Upon his return, Draco got anxious; Harry wasn't his Harry for days after. Guilt and misery would etch into the creases on his face, and he would disappear into the depths of the city with his camera for hours, unwilling to talk about England.

Draco wasn't stupid. He knew the problem was that Harry hated lying to his friends. He hated having to toe the line between loving his life and feeling guilty about it. But Draco was also quite selfish, and he wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to lose Harry when he finally told them and they forbid his return to Amsterdam.

Besides, Harry would get over it after a few days and things would be wonderful again.

* * *

 

For three years, they lived happily save for the trips home. For three years, they made friends with wizards, and went for couple drinks with Harry's old neighbours, and learned how to throw pottery because Harry forced them to try new things constantly, despite the fact that Draco would grumble loudly. They were, in a word, happy.

Finally, though, Draco had trapped Harry in an embrace the second he came back from his trip home to see Ginny after her baby Molly Prudence was born.

"Harry," Draco said softly into his ear. "It's time. You know it's time."

Harry had simply nodded, but had stalled for another month. Draco understood why, and frankly, now that they were standing here, with Harry bouncing nervously beside him, he almost wished that Harry had managed to stall things even longer.

"Why are _you_ nervous?!" Draco shouted, his tone accusatory. " _You_ can't be bloody nervous, we'll be fucking screwed."

Harry flinched. Draco was technically right, if a bit...sweary.

"Listen," he said. "There's this one story I didn't tell you, about why I ended up on the Amsterdam case. It was...they fast tracked Ron and I through the Auror program, that first year."

"Typical," Draco scoffed.

"Hush. I'm talking," Harry said, too nervous to deal with Draco's nonsense. "I was in the field, like five months later. It wasn't...I mean, I probably wasn't really entirely, you know, okay."

"Jamie, get to the point," Draco said soothingly. Clearly, he'd decided to try wearing his 'I'm a supportive boyfriend' hat for a moment.

"I killed someone. A suspect. I sent...too strong a spell. And Kingsley sent me to Amsterdam to try and cover it up."

Draco looked at him for a moment and then shook his head.

"Harry, darling, why is that relevant? It was a long time ago," he said.

"It's relevant because it's relevant to them. They...we never really talk about it, and they think…"

"It's not relevant, is it?"

"Maybe not," Harry conceded.

"Look," Draco said, putting a harsh hand on Harry's shoulder. "Let's not pretend that you aren't freaking out because I am Draco Malfoy, and you have not told them that for the last three years, you have been hiding in the Netherlands sleeping with me. I can still go if-"

"No," Harry said, setting his face and glaring at Draco. "First of all, we are not 'sleeping together' you great idiot. And it's time they know."

"I'm pretty sure we are sleeping —"

"Malfoy, shut it."

But Harry made no move to announce their presence to the people on the other side of this very humble blue door.

"They don't know we're coming, right?" Draco said gently. "So like, if we don't knock right now, they'll never know we were here?"

"Er, no? But we have to-"

"Yeah, yeah," Draco waved impatiently. "But we have time for me to show you something?"

When Harry nodded, Draco didn't pause for a moment before Apparating them both.

The countryside looked exactly the same as it had ten years before, and the day was garishly bright. The rapeseed was in full season, and violent yellow was making Draco want to vomit. It looked way too much like Wiltshire always had. The gates were covered over with ivy, and the ludicrous image of a children's tale made him shiver slightly. He took a deep breath, and pushed it open carefully, the violent creak that emanated making him cringe. He took a few steps forward onto the path that just barely remained. The surrounding space was jungle like and smelled like his mother's gardenias, which were in full blossom and everywhere. She'd be thrilled if she knew. He stopped when he realised Harry hadn't followed him, and scuffed his shoe in the dirt, shoving his hands in his pockets, when he saw that Harry was staring mouth agape. He'd give him a moment. He surged onward, walking towards the once impending house.

The windows were all gone, the glass long ago smashed by many area children. He wondered idly how long it had taken for the fear that had always been around the house to dissipate once the wards had fallen. He suspected it hadn't been long. He heard the gravel behind him shift and assumed Harry was now walking toward him. He continued forward, not bothering to check.

The front doors were not fully closed, and a pile of dirt had swept into the main entryway. The corridor was dark, but it smelt earthy and fresh. It smelt like a ruin. Which, technically, it was. Thanks to him.

"Draco," Harry said, taking his hand and pausing his grim march forward. "Draco, what...um, why?"

"Why are we here and what happened, right?" Draco said, turning to look at Harry, who actually looked pretty pale. He belatedly remembered that Harry hadn't been in this house since the war. He took a deep breath.

"Before I left, before I followed my mother to the Netherlands after the trial, I sort of...did this," he gestured, sweeping his hands around the house, where bits and pieces of debris still rested.

The house had obviously been ransacked since his little fit, but mostly, it looked like any abandoned place looked; trash and mud, strange lost things whose origins would always remain a mystery. A traffic cone sat at the bottom of the grand staircase, old liquor bottles scattered on the old wooden bench that had once stood in the upstairs corridor.

"I took down the wards too," he added pointlessly.

Harry looked around again. He took a few steps, then took a deep breath of his own. He kept walking forward, and Draco was filled with cold dread. He knew where Harry was headed. He followed silently.

When they finally stopped, staring up at the ceiling, where there had been little change, Draco stood with his arms folded across his chest, protecting himself and not able to look at Harry.

"Why are we here, Draco?" Harry said finally.

Draco considered for a moment, what he wanted his words to be. He knew what he wanted to convey, but he wasn't convinced he could do it.

"It's easy to forget," he started. "When we're in Amsterdam, when your hair was blond, when I call you 'Jamie' over lunch with my mother. It's easy to forget when you are taking sneaky pictures of me to hang up in the house, or when you eat toast with marmalade because we've run out of marmite again. It's easy to forget."

Harry took a step toward Draco, who didn't relent, didn't drop his arms. He wanted Harry to embrace him, to hold him close and make him feel better, but he hadn't earned that. Not yet.

"But I haven't forgotten," he continued. "I wasn't that person anymore. Even before I left England, I've...I don't know...woken up? Realised what a fool I'd been. I am not pretending — never will — that I didn't make really awful choices, choices that hurt people. Hurt you. And then I ran away, and I was ashamed for a while. The potions shop helped because it was a small piece of compensation, a tiny bit of good. Safe, but good."

He looked all around him, "I did this angry, but then I left. And then you turned up."

"Draco," Harry said. "We never ignored who we were."

"I know," Draco said, slightly exasperated. "That's why I'm trying to _say_ , Jamie. We aren't these people anymore. We've...we're different. You remember that, right? Your friends, they don't get to erase what we've done, who we are, where we've been since then. I am not this boy, the one who destroyed his family home, and certainly not the one who blindly followed orders."

He finally dropped his arms, letting his face fall fully, "And you, you are not the saviour of the wizarding world, owing them explanations or your life. We don't have to apologise any longer, we don't have to ask permission."

Harry looked at him for a moment longer before he stepped up to Draco fully and engulfed him in the hug that he'd been waiting for since they had entered the house. Draco wrapped him tightly into his arms, stooping to tuck his head down into Harry's neck, seeking comfort despite the odd angle.

Suddenly, Harry was laughing into Draco's hair, and even though it seemed very inappropriate timing, Draco tried his best to stay calm as he said, "What?"

"Always so dramatic about everything," Harry muttered, kissing his scalp gently and stepping back. "You couldn't just say, 'stop being a wanker, I love you, this is going to be fine'. No, you are Draco, and so you take me to your childhood home-"

"Well —"

"Which you _destroyed_ ," Harry interrupted. "And give an impassioned speech about our past selves and redemption."

"Yeah, well," Draco grumbled.

But Harry kissed him properly, and whispered, "Thank you Draco."

"Yeah, yeah. You're being a wanker. Let's go back. I hate it here," Draco shivered.

"You don't say," Harry said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Come on," Draco said, taking his hand forcefully and pulling him out of the house. "Let's get you back to your friends. You're looking way too much like a Malfoy for your own good."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is it, we've reached the end. Thanks for sticking with the weird, non-existent update timeline. I didn't mean to take this long to finish, so thanks again for reading and reviewing along the way.
> 
> Thanks also to Jade Presley, beta extraordinaire, for not flinching even once when I sent 80 pages to be edited at a time...and for convincing me that writing this story wouldn't be a terrible idea. She helped take a stuck drabble and make me believe it had plot. Heaps of gratitude, lovely.

Hermione hated Fridays. She was always exhausted and miserable, and today was no exception. It would be hours before Ron was home for dinner so that she could justify putting the kids to bed. There were likely still people in the world who thought that Friday was the _best_ , but she wagered a guess that those people did not have two children under five, a full-time career, a husband who was never home, and a nanny who was endlessly wonderful, but who had an annoying habit of expecting to be paid once in awhile, preferably on a regular schedule. Hermione much preferred Saturday, when there was no work at all, and she could cross things off on the never-ending list of tasks to complete.

She sighed as Hugo threw a toy at Rose, and Rose started crying, although it had been explained to her many times that as Hugo was only a baby, he likely hadn't meant to throw the toy at her. Merlin, was she exhausted.

When the doorbell rang, she started quite hilariously. She wasn't expecting anyone, and the desire to speak to absolutely no one was so strong that she actually ignored the first ring. Upon the second, insistent sounding ring, she sighed and stood up, stretching out her neck and sidestepping around an abandoned hobby horse to wrench open the door.

She bloody freaking hated Fridays.

When Ron got home two hours later, Hermione was on the front walk, pacing, the baby on her hip and a firmly awful expression on her face.

"Mione," he said, his voice cracking with concern. "What's wrong? Something wrong with the kids?"

Hermione looked at him for a moment, opened her mouth, and then began pacing again.

"Hermione. Speak,"

"Well, Ronald, I mean...I would like to. But I have been trying to sort out _how_ to tell you this in a way that is not going to result in you murdering your oldest friend, and I haven't figured it out just yet."

"What?" Ron said, looking at the house. "Harry's here?"

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh, "Yes. Technically, that is the summation. Harry is here."

"Brilliant!" Ron said, taking Hugo from Hermione and walking past her into the house.

The thought, 'Ron, wait' crossed her mind, but also, she had not sorted an explanation or a fix for what waited inside, so maybe Ron just seeing was the best solution available.

Since reappearing after his deep cover assignment, Harry had only been home a handful of times in the last three years; when Molly was born, when Rose had started primary, when Hugo was christened, for Seamus and Dean's wedding. Never in that time had he mentioned, 'oh hey, I'm fucking Draco Malfoy', or the even harder reality of 'oh hey, I'm actually in love with Draco Malfoy'. Because regardless of what else she had noticed in the fifteen minutes she'd spent listening to Harry before storming out, she had noticed _that_.

Hermione was keenly aware what the fleeting looks that kept appearing on Harry's face meant. Why there was subtle protective watching from Malfoy, and gentle, half-hidden touches between them when they had thought Hermione, through her outrage, wouldn't notice. Harry loved the man he'd showed up with on her porch, acting as though it was totally normal to bring a former Death Eater round for tea.

She wasn't sure she was angry anymore, but she really didn't understand, and there was nothing that Hermione Granger hated more than not understanding.

She quickly rushed after Ron, afraid of what was going to happen if he left the three of them alone.

Inside, Draco was sat at the low coffee table in the lounge, a green crayon in hand, studiously colouring as he and Rose quietly discussed the very serious merits of Unicorns over Hippogriffs. Harry sat on the couch watching them. Ron was standing at the door to the lounge, mouth wide in shock, and Hugo babbling on his hip, playing with his Auror badge and trying to take attention back to himself.

"Hermione," Ron finally said, a hiss under a quiet voice that was clearly for the benefit of the children. "Care to explain to me why there is a _Malfoy_ in my _lounge_?"

"Well, I think that is Harry's job. I'm just going to get Hugo's things. Your mother is on her way to take the children out for a few hours. So we can talk."

"Right," Ron said tightly, handing Hugo to Hermione. "I'll just...go change, then."

Malfoy put his crayon down carefully and stood up, moving to stand off to the left, seeming to try and melt into the background of the room.

"Rose, darling," Hermione said brightly. "Go get your jumper and shoes on. Gran will be here soon. You're going to go for chips!"

Rose gleefully hopped up, tickled her brother making him giggle, and skipped off.

"I can just go," Draco said very quietly, and Harry scoffed unkindly.

"You are not leaving," Harry replied. "If you aren't welcome, than I'll go too."

"Please, Harry, cut the dramatics," Hermione said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're the one who showed up unannounced. You need to give us a bit of time to sort out….everything."

When Molly arrived, popping up at the front door instead of the floo, Harry heard Hermione state that Ron had just had a very hard week and they needed a few hours to catch up. Molly soothingly spoke words he couldn't hear from the lounge, and Harry beckoned for Draco to sit down beside him.

With the kids gone, the shouting began. Harry listened through most of it, since interrupting Ron had never worked particularly well anyway. Draco, beside him, started jiggling a nervous leg, folding himself into a protective bubble; arms crossed, shoulders hunched. He wanted to reach out and wrap him into his arms instead, but he refrained. It would help no one but Draco, and that wasn't the goal. Finally, Ron had exhausted himself, and he collapsed into the uncomfortable chair in the corner that no one ever sat in, presumably because it was farthest away from the sofa.

Thankfully, Hermione was still in the room, though her eyes were hooded and she looked slightly murderous.

"I'm not going to pretend to understand," she said, holding up her finger when Harry tried to interrupt her. "I'm not going to forgive you either, or _you_."

Since this was the first time anyone had addressed Draco in almost an hour, Harry didn't blame him when he jumped.

"He is not number one on my list of 'people to forgive'," she hissed, harshness making Harry's hair prickle. Hermione took a visible breath.

"But," she began, speaking more softly. "It's been a long time. I have two children, and you've lived in another country for nearly a decade. And, I am very, very tired. In this house, we do not make big decisions on Friday. So right now, I am going to go get the good fish and chips and —"

"Hermione," Ron hissed.

"Friday, Ronald. Not. On. Friday. We are going to eat too many chips, and Harry is going to stay here, because he is Harry, and Malfoy can...stay too...and we will figure this out in the morning."

Hermione, in that way she always had, managed to shut Ron up.

They spent the next hour and a half eating really good chips extremely awkwardly. Draco had missed English fish and chips; it was sort of soggy, and kind of gross, really, but Merlin had he missed it. He sat in silence as the conversation stilted and jolted around him, just friends catching up in a weird, surface-only kind of way. He didn't even speak when the conversation turned to potions and Harry looked at him significantly, finally clearing his throat. Draco glared at him.

"I've—" he tried, voice catching from not having spoken in possibly decades. "I've solved the stability problem with murtlap."

The table fell even more silent and Draco cleared his throat. Putting his cutlery down carefully he trekked onwards; he refused to be a coward in front of a Weasley for crying out loud.

"The pickling was the problem," he continued, still not speaking above a whisper. "I can...bring you some."

He picked up his cutlery and kept eating. Ron, who had finished his chips, set his plate in the sink, kissed Hermione on the head, and walked out of the room.

"That'd be great, M-malfoy…" Hermione said, trying so hard to sound neutral that she sounded utterly terrified instead.

Draco and Harry stayed cleaning the dishes for the Weasley's while they tucked in their children, who had returned shortly after Ron's exodus from the kitchen. Draco wasn't really speaking, even when it was just Harry in the kitchen, and he didn't try to make him. It wasn't necessary; this had all gone exactly as Harry had pictured it going.

"Come on," he said finally, laying his cup towel on the hook, and touching Draco's shoulder gently.

Upstairs, Hermione had put two towels and two flannels and two pairs of ancient, striped pajama bottoms at the end of the guest bed. It didn't mean much, but it also meant everything, and Harry choked up a little looking at the neat little stacks.

Draco looked at him a moment and then stepped behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. "Sorry this is happening."

Harry leant back into Draco, "We always knew it was going to. You going to talk to me? How _you_ feeling?"

"Let's just...not right now, okay? Bed. I'm tired."

"Okay," Harry nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

* * *

Hermione stood at the guest bedroom door, poised to knock. She'd had an innocuous question for Harry, and she figured she'd just ask now. It had been something about breakfast, she was almost sure.

Except, she hadn't knocked and now she just felt creepy. Because she was listening instead. Listening to a conversation between partners as they settled into sleep. Those conversations were sometimes serious, sometimes not, but they were never meant to be shared with outside parties. Hermione was definitely an outside party, and yet she could not force herself to turn around and walk away.

"Your toenails are too long," came the crisp voice of a man she barely knew.

"You always say that," Harry replied, the humour in his voice apparent even from here.

"That is because they are always too long. And you scratch me in the middle of the night."

"You like when I scratch you."

"I like when you scratch me while I am conscious and participating in the reason you are scratching me," Malfoy replied, a distinct note of teasing behind his words, and the intimacy of the tone made Hermione shiver slightly.

And suddenly, they were also laughing. Not laughing in the sneering way Draco Malfoy had always laughed around her. They were laughing lightly and intermittently with what was obviously physical affection of some sort. Laughing like lovers.

Suddenly the sound died out, and the voices were softer when they returned. Hermione had to strain to hear as Malfoy whispered solemnly, "They hate me."

"Yup," Harry sighed.

"Hey!"

"What?"

"You're supposed to say, 'aww, no they don't', and reassure me, and shit."

Harry laughed, "If I were that bloke, we would not be together."

There was a pause as they both snickered.

"They do hate me, though."

"Well, I mean, you gave them good reason once upon a time. You forget that I hated you, too."

"Oh...yeah. I keep forgetting," Malfoy said with a laugh.

"Hmm."

"You don't hate me now?"

" _No_ , obviously not…stupid Malfoy."

"So. Is it possible? To change their minds?"

"Maybe."

"Not very reassuring, Potter."

"Again, who is it exactly that you think I am? Go to sleep, Draco. It'll keep. I promise you they'll still hate you tomorrow."

Hermione backed away as they stopped talking. She went to the end of the corridor and sank down against the bathroom door. She thought and thought, and for the first time, she could come up with no answer.

There was no guide book that would show her the solution to 'Harry Potter loves Draco Malfoy'. Finally, she gave up and decided to take the advice that Harry had not meant for her; it would keep until morning.

She wandered the upstairs, briefly checking that Rose was still settled, that Hugo is not awake either, that the bathroom window was locked, that the downstairs lights were off.

By the time she got to her bedroom, Ron was predictably asleep. He is always exhausted by Friday, too, and passes out the instant his head hits the pillow. She begrudged him nothing; they both worked hard, and together, they made it work. They were happy.

As she puttered around a moment longer, putting robes away and tidying the nightstand, she wonders. Wonders if together, Harry was happy. If together, they made it work. She sighed. It was just possible that no matter how much she loved him, she simply did not know everything about her to best friend. Not this time. Not anymore.

"I just thought I'd let you know," she said as she climbed into bed a few minutes later. "That I've decided to work on not hating Malfoy."

"Hrumph?" Ron grumbled from beside her.

"Yeah, I know. I'm sort of surprised as well. Only, I think Harry might actually be in love with him...and I think we might lose in that battle. If we make him choose, I mean. He has been gone a long time…"

"Morning?" Ron said unhelpfully.

"Yes. I know. Talk in the morning. Fine. But you should get used to it now. I won't give in that easily."

"Never do," Ron smiled affectionately with a dopey look, eyes still closed, and although she wasn't convinced he'd actually heard her, she laid her brain to rest and curled into bed muttering ‘it'll keep’ to herself. And it would.

Harry would still love Draco in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [ Tumblr](https://professordrarry.tumblr.com)!


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